


The sun in my mouth

by lilith_morgana



Series: Swtor: Erviel Boldry [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe next time you can get me something a little more practical? Like thermite."</p><p>Snapshots of Aric Jorgan and Erviel Boldry as they travel the galaxy with the Havoc squad. Pre-KotFE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hit the ground running (Ord Mantell)

**Author's Note:**

> _“I will take the sun in my mouth_  
>  and leap into the ripe air   
> Alive   
> with closed eyes  
> to dash against darkness” 
> 
> e.e cummings
> 
> Some tidbits of this fic have been posted [at my tumblr](http://senseandaccountability.tumblr.com/) before.

  
  
  
  
“Well, this is too good to be true,” the new whelp drawls on Ord Mantell and Aric wishes he could switch her off, but it seems her cocky mouth is here to stay. Just his blasted luck. His entire career has been destroyed and she’s boasting about her own progress, already pulling her new-found rank. Arrogant little __brat__.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters under his breath; she looks at him and smirks but says nothing else.

Don’t get used to it, __Sir__ _,_ he reminds himself and wants to put a white-hot load of plasma in something.

 

* * *

 

Erviel stands in front of her only shipmate – and the only soldier currently under her command - with two mugs of coffee in her hands. She gives him one and leans against the wall panel, sipping her own.   
  
“Still angry?” Her voice is deliberately neutral but it's hard not giving in to the temptation and tease him. Even with everything they've been through he strikes a ridiculously obstinate chord in her, spurs her least pleasant instincts somehow, urging her to keep poking at the wound though she normally wouldn't. _Wouldn't you?_ She's not spiteful, not _really_. It's just that way he has of speaking to her like she's incapable of making decisions. The word _rookie_ that hangs unspoken above and in between everything he says. That arrogance and self-importance, the imperious attitude so common among high-ranking officers, twisting his carefully detached words into ammunition.  
  
She's experienced no shortage of _that_ in her life.

_Aw, if it isn't Arora and Lee's brat; let's see what you can do then, little girl._

_Ah well, the apple occasionally does fall far from the tree._  
  
Even with a near-perfect service record and with her parents long gone, she's never rid of this particular slice of the past. The measuring up, its constant competition. Her mum had been a legendary fighter pilot, her dad a renowned field medic and it hadn't mattered to anyone that Erviel herself had tried to forge a path far from both of those areas. The ghosts of her parents, the long shadows they cast, have never truly left.

She takes a mouthful of coffee, swallows it quickly and feels it burn in her throat.  
  
“Yes, I am,” Jorgan retorts harshly - but not as harshly as he had spoken a couple of days ago when they left Ord Mantell together and he had clarified to her that he's a professional who'll follow orders. Even orders from a  _careless, undisciplined rookie_. They've made it off-planet since then and the worst disbelief and disappointments have rubbed off against new encounters and complex missions unfolding but he's still steel and silence in her presence. And such a prideful bastard that she almost can't help herself any time she spots a crack in his armour.

She opts for generosity today, however, feeling too tired for a quarrel. “It was unfair, what happened to you.”  
  
He gives her a long glance as though he's convinced she's mocking him and he's ready to berate her for it. But then he nods, curt and guarded, but not as closed-off as he normally is. For a brief moment, he looks at her as one would look at someone one vaguely respects – or at least tolerates.

 _Baby steps_ , she tells herself and refrains from sneering.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
She’s not as reckless as his initial impression of her had made him fear, but she’s still new to the burden of command and Aric watches, wearily, for any missteps along the way. Confidence may fool many people but it has never fooled him and that strategy has served him well for fifteen years of military service. He’s never had any reason before to doubt his own judgement and damned if he’s going to let a bunch of cowardly bastards make his confidence falter now.

"Do you get it?” The lieutenant leans against the wall, watching him as he tends to the arsenal of weapons they’ve stocked up on. It’s a soothing occupation and has always been. Practical, hands-on.

He looks up briefly; there’s a hard edge to her that often clash against her fairly young age and today it seems particularly prominent. “Get what, sir?”

“Defecting.”

“Is this a questioning or small talk?” His voice comes off as sharper than intended but these are special blasted times and he’s sick of how the very word creeps into everything, like a disease takes over your body. _ _Defecting__.

She throws him a glance that tells him she is just on the verge of being annoyed. “It’s a reality,” she says. “People defect all the time for a lot of shitty reasons. I’ve just never seen it so close before.”

Aric thinks of Tavus and Fuse, thinks of their long debriefings and off-duty hours stationed on Ord Mantell. No, they were never friends. He doesn’t have friends. But they were a __team__ and he usually prides himself on being able to know what makes people tick. Bitterness he understands, revenge he understands even better, but he can’t seem to open up that vein in himself, can’t seem to let those emotions run him over even when they twist and shift in his blood. It takes a certain something that he doesn’t possess.

Tavus had been a good man once. Perhaps he still is. That doesn’t change the fact that Aric wants to put his rifle to the man’s forehead and pull the trigger. It’s dark thought, but nonetheless true. There’s a generous serving of grey in the middle of their clear-cut orders and regulations even if everybody acts like they never notice it.

War breaks people and they need someone to blame. A CO had told him this many years ago. When he tells his own CO – her rank still makes something in his chest sting, if only a little and much more subdued than a couple of weeks ago – she looks at him for a long time.

“I suppose,” she says eventually.

He tries to picture her broken and in need of scapegoats, wills the image of her to transform. It’s almost impossible to imagine her stubborn courage and the rest of her well-trained, self-confident attributes in a situation like that. He finds that it reassures him in a weird way, answers some questions he hasn’t even been asking.

“Well. Let me know if you feel the urge to defect,” he says, only half-joking.

The lieutenant observes him, a half-smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “So you can turn me in to Garza and let her have her way with me?”

Aric shrugs, turning away from her again. “Something like that, sir.”


	2. Protocol (Coruscant)

 

 

On Corucsant, it feels vaguely like she's drowning.

The events on Ord Mantell catches up with her – a cold chill down her back, a jolt of adrenaline to her system at the most unexpected of times - as she moves across those fancy pavements in the best parts of the very heart of the Republic where the political turmoil of its capital does nothing to make her feel less overwhelmed.

At least she's not alone in it.

“It's gorgeous here,” Erviel says as they head for the Senate tower. “Didn't think I'd get to see this.”

“This is limited to the elite,” the sergeant replies, quiet and composed as ever; he nods towards a pair of tall towers glittering in the sun. “The less important people are left in the undercity, at the mercy of the gangs and the slavers.”  
  
She doesn't have to ask where his sympathies belong or where he, perhaps, once had belonged himself; his posture, that angry little fire at the very bottom of his gaze speaks louder than words. There's the limitations of her upbringing right there, the lack of perspective, the missing links to the rest of the galaxy. The whole universe that isn't defined by regs and protocol and hard regimens of blaster training and survival simulations. The whole universe that runs on other things, far less suited for breaking down into understandable, well-organised charts.

Charts are her thing. Corrupted senators and complicated chains of galactic politics belong to the category that really aren't.

“I've no idea.” She looks down at the evidence in her hand, resting behind the seemingly unimportant shell. It's a confession, of sorts, the fact that she tells him at all. An admitted defeat. “About any of this. Blasted politicians.”

For a while they're both silent, then Jorgan clears his throat.

“I'd have exposed her, sir.”

“Yeah?” she asks and he nods once and very definitely, a gesture of certainty. _If you can't feel it, fake it._ Who told her that? Good advice, at any rate. “I guess you're right. The people of Coruscant deserve the truth.”  
  
“The people of Coruscant deserve a lot more than that.” There's a tone in his voice that makes her look at him but he averts his gaze before she has time to catch it and the moment passes by, unmarked.

  


* * *

  
  
  
  
On Coruscant, Aric half-expects her to drop his name when the interrogators repeat that one question he has been asking himself over and over and over. It sounds as foul in their mouths as it does in his head, its implications as frustrating.

“Do you believe that anyone serving on Ord Mantell should have seen this situation coming?”

The lieutenant doesn’t hesitate; her voice is clear and low, a voice of command and authority.

“No, I don’t believe anyone could have seen this coming,” she says and for a fraction of a second Aric believes her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Coruscant, they become a squad again as duty and purpose pull them together regardless of everything else. They fall into a simple, comfortable rhythm together – simple because it doesn't require much beyond cooperation and comfortable because it's a relief to be a soldier when it's all you know. The firm structure of it pressed into their shapes, protocol and regulations in their blood and bones, _yes_ _sir_ , _right_ _away_ , _sir_ and it's like _breathing_.

“That could have gone worse,” Jorgan half-mutters from the dusk of the cantina.  
  
“Such praise! Careful there, it might go to my head.” Erviel puts down two glasses on the table in front of him and takes a seat. He looks at the drinks and then at her; she shrugs. “You're off the clock, sergeant, don't worry. Thought you said this place had the best Corellian whiskey on Coruscant.”  
  
Though he probably didn't mean he had any intention of finding out in her company, she adds to herself. _Tough luck, Jorgan._ The Havoc squad is going to be short on members for a long while yet, they'd better make the best of what they have.

“Never thought you paid attention to details, sir,” he states flatly and reaches for his drink.

“If they're about booze or guns, I do.”

He glances at her, something irritated in his gaze – no shock there, of course. She figures by now that he doesn't run on blood like the rest of them, instead he seems fuelled by an endless supply of disapproval and ideas for improvement. It makes him an excellent soldier, a good man (probably) and a huge pain in the ass.

“You've got a perfect service record,” he says then, as though that would be a direct contradiction to her earlier remark. Perhaps it is. But that way she'll always have the upper hand, carrying the surprise card.

“I'm good at what I do.” She thinks of all those months and years of training and her breathless, _mindless_ determination to always come out on top, always win, always prove herself against the rest of the galaxy. She's never resisted a bet or a challenge in her life.

“A perfect record doesn't make a good leader.”

 _It doesn't make a poor one either_ , she thinks, raising her glass again. These are the kind of retorts she's quickly learned to avoid. Of all the things he'll find to accuse her of, being dense isn't going to make it to that list.

“If you have any advice, I welcome it,” she says instead to Jorgan's obvious surprise. “Give it to me straight.”

He pauses for a beat, then nods, and for the first time since she met him she can see a trace of genuine warmth appear behind his composure.  
  
"I'll remember that, sir."  
  
  



	3. Allies (Taris)

  


He first pegs her as lazy and he's not sure why.  
  
Maybe it's some stray remark on Ord Mantell, some lingering posture from other groups she's belonged to, other soldiers she's worked with. Maybe it's her general attitude. Or maybe, Aric has to admit when they've been shipmates for a little while, it's his prejudice talking. She's a military brat – a _human_ military brat in the Republic army, at that – with a flawless record and he knows that this can either mean that you're damn talented and possess a fair bit of sheer dumb luck or that you're a brown-nosing little shit. It may not be his best trait, but he's quick to judge and she _had_ rubbed him the wrong way at first.  
  
Lazy, arrogant little _brat_ , he had thought. Used to getting everything she wants, served and ready to go.  
  
It's actually really far from the truth.  
  
Most days Aric finds her in the middle of a training simulation before he's even had breakfast – she's picking the most challenging ones, too, putting her maximum capacity to the test – and in the evenings he finds her asleep in various places. She's devouring information about everything at the moment, reading up on galactic history as well as current intel; at times he catches her rubbing her temples when she studies, as though she's willing her brain to work faster.  
  
“Did you want something?” She barely looks up from her after-action report when he stops in front of her seat. Her face is composed and expressionless, every line and angle sharp and focused. There's an urge in him, soaring low and dull at the back of his head, to tell her to relax, to get some _rest_.  
  
“Coffee, sir, ” he says instead.  
  
An arched eyebrow, something slightly annoyed creeping into her tone. “I'm not making you coffee, Jorgan.”

He can't keep from scoffing. “No, sir, I made _you_ some.”  
  
That, at least, makes his CO drop her report and look at him and he spots a little grin as she takes the mug he hands over.  
  
“Right.” She nods. “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
Aric nods back at her. He may be quick to judge, but he also prides himself on being reasonable enough not to act on his prejudices and to at least occasionally re-evaluate them entirely. Maybe he will in this case.  
  


 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The rakghouls get under her skin.  
  
It's the general disease of the place, the various stages of decay – whenever she thinks about how Taris used to be _magnificent_ and how wars have torn it apart there's a hollow sound in her chest, like a longing for something she's never seen or had but that's still missing. Plus the fact that their chase through the slums and outskirts of Coruscant had left them empty-handed, left them chasing further and ending up here, on this dump.  
  
_Taris_ gets under her skin.  
  
And then they met with Sergeant Dorne who seems like she's equally bothered by the situation and equally eager to actually act and Erviel doesn't even hear the accent at first, only hears the _familiarity_ in her voice. It annoys her that Jorgan doesn't agree.  
  
“That was... interesting,” he says and there's a taut crispness to his tone, a superiority she can't stand. Ord Mantell is too fresh for that, the memories too close.  
  
She shoots him a glance; around them all tech in the outpost hum in their barely discernible way, the screens flickering like the blanket of stars that surrounds her ship. Usually she takes comfort in it but here it seems like it's mocking them. All the advances of century after century of hyper-advanced technology and it's still not enough to prevent scenarios like this one. Scars of old and filth that spreads into every corner, as if the ground beneath them protests against any re-colonization effort.  
  
“Interesting how?” She is nearly taken aback by the irritation in her own voice that lands heavy in the air.  
  
“I've had drill instructors more relaxed than that woman,” Jorgan elaborates and it does nothing to improve Erviel's mood. Her history is full of officers like Jorgan, heck, her history is nothing but a map of officers like Jorgan and their nagging, condescending sourness masked as concern. _Not tough enough to take it? Go home._  
  
She is tough enough to take it. She's tough enough for a lot of awful things. Doesn't mean she's going to let others bulldoze them all over her to prove a point.  
  
“Aw, looks like little Jorgan has finally met his dream girl.”  
  
They had begun to get along fairly well during the travel day to Taris. She had asked him about his time at the Academy, he had wondered about a few of her tutors and instructors; when the meals were served they had brought them to the main deck, shared them like soldiers out in the field. _What do you reckon this is supposed to taste like?_  
  
Getting to know someone takes time, at least for her. It's a like a slow weave, a spider's net between people and she had felt it, _briefly_ , but still. Sensed it in a shared inside joke about the Academy, a reference spotted, a look exchanged.  
  
Now Jorgan looks at her and she can't feel any kind of bond between them. His gaze is dark and cold.  
  
“Don't be ridiculous. Uh, Lieutenant.” Does he sound _hurt_? She blinks, suddenly regretting what she just said but the moment passes rapidly and Jorgan shrugs. “And...forget I said anything.”  


  
  


 


	4. Lucky survivor (Taris)

It’s the earnest _decency_ in her that appeals to him, he thinks one long day on Taris where the sun is unrelenting and the stench of chaos floods their bodies. Sweat, heat, hunger, disease. The whole planet stinks of death. And in the middle of it, his commander carries herself with the kind of dignity Havoc squad ought to possess but hasn’t done in a while.  
  
But even beyond that, beyond her strength and courage, he finds someone who is brave enough to care. Quickly erased in new recruits clashing against the unflattering reality of war, the compassion seems to have rooted itself in her instead, gaining ground with every mission. It’s dangerous to hold on to it because it might as well crush your spirit, but some do.  
  
Aric respects that. Blast it, he _admires_ that and aspires to still – in some part of his consciousness - remains the youth who once signed up for military service to please his father but who found himself staying for the hard-won cause of it all. The _purpose_.  
He had thought the lieutenant vastly different from him in this regard, but perhaps she isn’t.

“I do love a challenge,” she says, hands on hips and with that annoying __swagger__ that is rendering her the same woman who had irked all the hells out of him on Ord Mantell.  
  
But he sees a backdrop now, he thinks as they set out together in the mornings. She may still act like she’s got more brawn than brains and her disrespect for both ceremony and authority is no less flagrant but at the bottom of it, he can discern a proud and honourable Republic soldier.

Some days, he has to work hard to remind himself of this knowledge.

“I won’t carry you back to the outpost, sir,” he informs the captain as they leave their outpost to find a pack of diseased creatures that can infect her - for noble but ultimately dangerous reasons. It goes against all reason and code to be a guinea pig for scientists and he tells her this through gritted teeth. She still stands before him without armour, having been examined and measured against all possible medical standards before declared fit for the experiment.

It’s such an unnecessary risk and time-consuming diversion that he has to struggle to keep his calm.  
  
She throws him a glance over her shoulder as she begins to suit up. “Noted.”

“So how _are_ you planning on getting to the medical droid then?”

“I’ll walk,” she says, sounding almost bored. It’s one of the downsides of having an unshakable confidence in one’s abilities. He _knows_ this, because somewhere at the back of his mind he recognizes his own faults in this woman’s display of pride and reassurance.

He shakes his head, though he doesn’t think she can see him doing it.

Aric’s an idealist, too, but he knows the price of it. Faith doesn’t come cheap and he’s seen too many good soldiers lose themselves to vague sets of standards serving no other purpose than to break them, push them over the edge. There’s no protocol for blind idealism and there’s a good reason for it, too. The military code is carefully arranged around these matters; she ought to follow it better, though he knows that is a particularly vain hope to nurse.

And the thing with her, the little detail that simultaneously irks and fascinates him, is that she usually pulls it off, no matter how ridiculous the mission or how absurd the odds.

Today is not an exception, of course.

“ _Blast_ ,” she hisses an hour or so later; spitting words that form under her breath, between teeth that are pressed hard together. She has one arm around Aric’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around her waist where she had let the animal bite her.

“You still look human, sir,” Aric says dryly, unable to restrain the sarcasm in his voice. “If it’s any consolation.”

She glares at him, frowning, and then a small smile appears on her face and somehow – and for reasons he does not wish to investigate any further - it overshadows his irritation.

  
  


* * *

 

  
  
There's some sort of bird nearby that makes a fairly annoying sound, Erviel thinks as she's trying not to get too restless. She's placed under supervision at the outpost, surrounded by medical droids and hooked up to various screens that announce her level of infection in regular intervals. Her hands rest in her lap, then they don't, her legs feel twitchy in this state of forced rest.  
  
"I feel fine," she tells Jorgan for the third time. He's half-sitting against a desk, arms folded across his chest as he watches her with the same kind of intensity as the medical droids. It had been a silent agreement between them that if she has to sit this out, he would wait with her. She's grateful for it now.  
  
"Of course you do, sir."  
  
"No, I mean it. This is nothing-" She cuts herself off when she makes a sudden move and feels the nausea rise in her chest once more, leaving her shaking in her seat. _Damn it._ Her orders had been clear enough - recuperate for at least two hours, off duty for the rest of the day, return for another screen tomorrow - but her heart had not been in it when she agreed.  
  
Taris is a hot mess and she feels useless sitting here, even if it's just for a little while. She learns that people on the street view her as too pro-alien for not driving certain groups of refugees away in favour of other groups of refugees and she's still not sure. She's still not sure about the rakghouls either, or the tired, broken soldiers she meet everywhere.  
  
"You're not used to waiting." He sounds amused - well, as amused as Aric Jorgan ever sounds, she suspects - and his tone hits something in her, digs its way inside. Not that he's _wrong_ , it's just the way he _says_ it. As though no matter how many days they add to their service together, how many travel days or old-fashioned field excursions they commit to, he will always find her slightly at fault. For whatever reason, for whatever crime. Slightly at _fault_.  
  
"I work fast." Her own voice sounds grumpier than she feels and he catches the edge in it, she can tell by the way something shifts in his gaze.  
  
"I'm used to much less moving about," he offers, then. "With the Deadeyes."  
  
Erviel looks up; there's a light in his face when he speaks of his time with the Deadeyes and she can understand why - special group, special targets, really special missions focused on demoralizing and disrupting. She finds it rather impressive; she's not sure she'll ever tell him that.  
  
“You must have chalked up quite a kill count,” she says instead.  
  
Jorgan nods and he might not show it but she knows he's proud. “Over two dozen confirmed.”  
  
“That's a lot of demoralizing.”  
  
The corners of his mouth twitch briefly. “That's what I signed up for – to fight Imperials.”  
  
Had it been that simple for her? She almost can't remember but she does remember that sense of knowing, even before she truly _knew_ , that she was going to lead a military life. It's in her blood and blood screams loudly.  
  
“Tell me about your first mission with the Deadeyes.” Erviel shifts in her seat, scratching the back of her hand. Every small sign from her body feels like a sign of impending doom in here with all the screens. She squares her shoulders, trying to ease the weight of it all.  
  
The sergeant gives her a curious look. “Are you that bored, sir?”  
  
She has to grin at that remark. “I'm _that_ bored.”  



	5. Home is where your ship is

  
  
  
  
  
They leave Taris as a unified motion, a collective breath of relief.  
  
Erviel thinks she's going to shower for much longer than the recommended duration, close her eyes and scrub her skin free from every memory of the rakghouls and the exhausted despair she had seen in the soldiers' eyes planetside. They had lost hope. Had watched their purpose get flushed away in that endless flood of disease and death.  
  
She had given them her usual speeches – shape up, remember your oaths, stand up straight and focus on the mission – because those burn in her throat but she knows that it's not that simple. Life is always more complex than protocol states. _Take away the hope that you're doing the right thing and a soldier is just a fool with a blaster rifle_ an old XO says sharply in her memory.  
  
“It will end,” she had told one group of grunts looking like they were on the verge of deserting, that empty stare, those hollow voices. “Sooner or later, it will. Take comfort in that.”  
  
Jorgan had given her a strange glance then, as though he'd been torn between voicing disapproval or agreement. As though he's always balancing between those two. Maybe he's got some well-managed system for when he opts for the first or the second alternative, maybe he's tossing a proverbial coin every time or runs some program on his datapad.  
  
It makes her smirk to herself, thinking about it.  
  
That night as they return to the ship, Jorgan tells her he has been offered a better position and what could only be described as an apology. Or as close as the military protocol ever comes to an apology, anyway.

“I'd hate to lose you,” she says, almost on instinct, and the corners of his mouth curl upwards.

He seems surprised that she had let it slip, and she is surprised in turn to find that he hadn't even considered going anywhere. Not a career man, he tells her and she doesn't fully believe that, but she does believe that he wants to be where he can make the biggest difference. Unfortunately for the locals on Ord Mantell, that place is not with them.

“You won't.” He returns his focus to the weapons, but before she leaves he adds in a slightly different tone: “I have your back, sir.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
The ship moves smoothly through the system – _estimated arrival in 3.2 hours_ , the droid had announced a while ago – and everything sort of stills around them, the way things do on transit days. So much time lost to the galaxy, he used to think when he was younger, hungrier, less suited for downtime. He had been restlessly marching back and forth through the ships then, had taken stock, sorted through inventories and re-read reports until someone higher up in ranks had forced him to stop. _Know when to rest, Jorgan.  
  
_ By the sound of it, his squadmates have learned this lesson, too, at some point.   
  
“...regulation 67, paragraph 9, sir.” Their latest recruit has a voice that still tears through some flimsy fabrics of his mind and his CO may call it ridiculous all she wants, he needs more time to fully adjust to it. He's a professional, he won't show it, but damn if he will let someone dictate his thoughts and emotions.  
  
“ _Damn_ , Dorne. That's correct.”  
  
“Told you so, sir.”  
  
Aric only catches fragments of the conversation but from what he can hear it sounds like their leader is having a Republic military rules and regulations quiz with their latest Havoc recruit. Shaking his head slightly, he can't help but lean towards the doorway to his quarters and check out what's going on in the common area nearby.  
  
Their XO – _for fuck's sake, Jorgan, call me Erviel or at least Boldry when we're off duty_ \- is seated comfortably in an armchair, arms folded across her broad chest and a smile on her face. There's something about her look, he thinks briefly, something fascinatingly _content_ that spins and twists in his gut. He wonders if she knows it. If she's one of those who carefully calculate the effects they have on others.  
  
“Hey, Jorgan,” her voice is warm and catches him off guard. He'd thought himself decent enough at snooping around unnoticed but apparently he's not. “Come join us.”  
  
“Sir, I-” He cuts himself off, doesn't really have any objections. _And no authority to voice them, either._  
  
“We're wasting time trying to decide what our preferred topic in a cantina quiz competition would be.” The lieutenant – _Boldry_ , he tries to call her that in his head at least – nods towards the other woman. “Sergeant Dorne's here was a no-brainer. What about yours, Jorgan?”  
  
“Weapons, perhaps,” he offers after a beat. He can play, too. It's a luxury and not something he endorses or even appreciates all that much but he _can_ do it and for some reason he wants her to know that about him. “Old and new.”  
  
“I see.” She nods; something slightly _approving_ in her gaze, he reckons for a minute.  
  
“What about yours, sir?” Dorne now, apparently more invested in this travel day nonsense than she'd like to admit. He can tell by the carefully arranged tone, stacked neatly around the question.  
  
“Military history,” she says. Fast reply, no need to think it through. “Won one of those trivia tournaments at the Academy, actually.”  
  
“Really?” He looks at her and she nods at him, an amused grin splitting her face.  
  
“What, did you think I'd say _booze_ , Jorgan?”  
  
He had, actually, but he's not about to admit that. Off duty or not.  
  
“No, sir. Of course not.”  
  
Their commanding officer chuckles and leans even further back in her seat, allowing her gaze to travel like she's sizing him up, forming a new verdict of him now after some time together as the sole members of their little squad. It's impossible to say what it would be, he thinks. He's not even sure what he thinks of her after this run.  
  
But as he meets her gaze – bold, curious, as steady as she is – he's at least very pleased with his decision to stay with Havoc squad, wherever it will take him.  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 


	6. Double negative (Nar Shaddaa)

 

Aric decides already after one day's work on Nar Shaddaa that he doesn't much care for Jonas Balkar. It's the careless attitude that grates, the mindless _banter_ he keeps throwing around as though his line of work has any room for it. There's something suspicious about people who can't refrain from acts like that, people who, no matter the situation, are compulsive about their damn jokes and flirting.   
  
Yes, _flirting_. It's annoying enough in young recruits. When people who are old enough to know better than to flaunt their personal lives in public disregard that scrap of common sense, he definitely can't stand it. It might be a difference based on species and background, sure, but he's served with enough humans to be able to claim to have a decent grasp on their behavioural patterns and this isn't typical unless you're an annoying fool.   
  
It seems his CO doesn't agree about that and somehow this difference of opinion is something that makes Aric want to growl retorts, rank be damned. It might not be to his own credit that he loses his temper over banalities like these but there you go, he tells himself. We all have our vices and if Balkar's is to be an unprofessional idiot, then surely Aric's can be to not suffer unprofessional idiots gladly.   
  
“Now, was that fun, or was that fun?” Balkar watches them, hands on hips as they return from a successful infiltration of the arms factory.   
  
There's something in his tone that makes Aric reply before the lieutenant has a chance to.   
  
“You picked the right squad,” he says, ignoring the edges to his own voice, deciding he's the only one who hears them. “This was right up the lieutenant's alley.”  
  
She looks at him then, a slightly curious glint in her eyes, but says nothing.   
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
A couple of days and a lot of hard work later, Aric decides that he never wants to work with Jonas Balkar again unless the galaxy's continued existence undoubtedly depends upon it. Blasted _fool_.   
  
“If you like what you see, maybe you should do something about it?” It's that familiar _swagger_ in his CO's voice that gets to him, that willingness to participate in these charades. Aric can't fathom why anyone would want to behave like this, in front of other people. There are better ways to go about it, much less pathetic ways to get your needs taken care of without putting on a show.   
  
Of course Balkar, true to his ridiculous nature, wants the flaunting.   
  
“Get your priorities straight, Balkar,” Aric hears himself snarl. “Or I'll straighten them out for you.”  
  
His commanding officer raises an eyebrow – a quick reaction, almost unnoticeable but he _sees_ it and suddenly he's embarrassed. What right does he have to behave like a heated youth, full of badly directed passions and anger. That's hardly more commendable than behaving like hormonal kids. He groans inwardly at his own stupidity, flexing his arms a little as though he can shake off the situation.   
  
The lieutenant would have every right to berate him; he looks at her, waits.   
  
“We're all on the same side here, Jorgan,” she says instead, levelly.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The days seem to pile up rapidly here on the Smuggler's moon. Already it's a while since they arrived and hour after hour gets swallowed in the bright neon lights and crowded markets, the long stretches of shops and bars. It's the best of planets, it's the worst of planets. For her, it's a planet that means she has a million things to do, preferably at _once_ , and hard decisions to make.   
  
Erviel exhales, scratching the back of her head as she scrolls through her messages and reports at one of the tables in the cantina on the upper promenade.

When she hears footsteps approaching she glances up and notices Jorgan standing there, observing her for a beat before he takes a seat. The past few days have been strained, full of hard work and disagreements and she realises when she sees him now that she doesn't like it, doesn't want that kind of tension between them. He can be such an unreasonable, stubborn creature. _Takes one to know one, eh?_  
  
“Long day,” she says as some sort of greeting.   
  
“Long day,” he agrees.   
  
There's an update on Doctor Charnagus on her screen, outlining a plan for the near future when it comes to his existence and very restricted service. To serve the Republic, she had said. For the greater good, she had thought but not quite believed. To give us an _edge_. They'll need those in the days to come, recent events have taught her as much.   
  
“I disagree with the decision you made.” Jorgan looks at the message before he leans back in his seat. His voice is calm, low and there's a touch of comfort in it, a touch of wanting to say _there was no good decision, no great outcome_. Or maybe she's hallucinating. The whole thing still disgusts her, crawls about under her skin.   
  
“Yeah.” She rakes a hand through her hair that feels full of chemicals and dirt, like Nar Shaddaa has ensnared itself with her body. “It wasn't one I made with ease.”  
  
He nods and the corners of his mouth twitch a little, like he's battling his own reactions. “I know.”  
  
“Aren't you going to lecture me about it?” Nar Shaddaa creeps into her voice, as well, hardening it. She can hear how rough it sounds, how _contrary_.   
  
“Why?” Now Jorgan looks genuinely surprised. “There's no reason why I wouldn't trust your instincts or judgement, sir. You've taken us this far.”

“But you would have had the doctor killed?”  
  
He nods briefly, signalling that he doesn't find hypothetical reasoning very interesting or relevant. Bless him. “Likely.”  
  
And this right here is why she hates to argue with him, she thinks as they both relents a little in their postures and she folds her arms across her chest and puts the datapad on the table. Because the fact remains that few people out there can be as reassuring as Aric Jorgan, as loyal and level-headed, as clever and supportive once you cut through the layers of gruff military bullshit. At the heart of it he _trusts_ her, she knows that in her bones. He might not always feel ready to shout it from the top of Nar Shadaaa's tallest buildings, but he trusts her. Just like she trusts him with her life – though she finds his personality equal parts narrow-minded and arrogant – and values his opinion. At least about everything besides how she chooses to interact with other people, such as Balkar.   
  
“So where's Balkar?” he asks, on cue.   
  
Erviel shakes her head, trying not to show that she's still both amused and irritated about the remark he had made earlier. It's a stitch of something at the back of her mind, a little flurry of emotions.  
  
“I was just messing with him.”   
  
Maybe, she thinks to herself, it's a human thing? A cultural difference. That's one of those remarks she intends to keep to herself, one of those things that would probably cause him to stare at her with that small frown he has, his trademark gruffness breaking through everything else.   
  
_Maybe you were just flirting because that's what you do?_  
  
“Right.” He sounds slightly uncomfortable with the conversation but he did indeed initiate it, she's not letting him off the hook just yet.   
  
“Not my type, Jorgan,” she says instead, as a loud group of assorted mercs enter the cantina, roaring about food and drinks.   
  
This is an outright _lie_ – or at least half a lie, at least these days - but she figures they don't need to go into that.   
  
“I wouldn't know, sir.” If she had thought she would be able to wring a different kind of reaction out of him, she would have felt empty-handed now because Jorgan's face is composed, his voice unmoved. He merely looks at her with some vague shade of curiosity at the corners of his gaze.   
  
And she smiles.   
  
“Now you do.”   
  
  
  


 

 

 


	7. The ones that get away (post Nar Shaddaa)

 

  
  
She runs one last check for her gear, observing the numbers and stats carefully with one hand cradling a mug of steaming hot coffee. A dull headache throbs behind her eyes, like a soft little patter, intensifying as she leans down. Courtesy of Nar Shaddaa, she supposes. It's been an intense stay here, intense and overwhelming and at least half the times she's tried to catch some rest something or someone has urgently demanded her attention.  
  
Now they're in transit for a while and she ought to lie down on her bed but the thread of restlessness that got beaten into her on Ord Mantell and now lingers at the back of her mind doesn't let her rest anyway. _Work harder, do better._  
  
“Sir.” Jorgan's voice behind her.  
  
“Jorgan. What's up?” She puts down the datapads and shifts in her seat so she's facing him. He looks as tired as she feels, truth be told, and it makes her frown a little. “Something's wrong?”  
  
“Nothing's wrong, sir. I wanted to tell you I've double-checked the battle droid.”  
  
Erviel throws the droid in question a glance where it stands by the intercom. _As long as it balances out,_ someone told her once. _A ship shouldn't have more droids than people_. There seems to be no chance of that ever happening to a Republic vessel but she's always kept it around as a decent bit of advice.  
  
“So did I,” she offers a half-smile. “It seemed very... enthusiastic.”  
  
Jorgan snorts. “You could say that.”  
  
“I doubt the SIS offered us a Trojan horse.” Erviel isn't sure the reference to archaic old human mythology is the best way to go with him, but if he's annoyed he doesn't show it, at least.  
  
“It will come in useful,” he agrees. “You can never be too careful with war droids, though.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
There's a minor concern spinning around in her head tonight, a parallel thread to the headache and the restlessness, only this one is heavier, falls like rain. It feels like she's been disappointing her superiors and even though she can't see herself react any differently to recent events it's still a raw sort of frustration knowing that the general is displeased. _Follow orders_ , a stern voice like an echo in her memory. _That's all you have to do._  
  
It is, really? She's never been convinced.  
  
“You look troubled.” Jorgan's voice is low, discreet. One of those little details she appreciates about him – he never puts on a show about anything. In the past she's served with enough people who wants the galaxy or at least the near surroundings to know – really know and _hear_ – about their displays of sympathy with others, who needs to feel sure nobody misses a beat of their goodness.  
  
Erviel sighs, sipping the coffee. “Garza didn't exactly praise my methods earlier.”  
  
It's not as clear-cut as she pretends, if anything ever is, but that's probably the heart of it. Some deep-rooted starvation, a lifetime trying to make up for a lack of something she never even knew she was missing before she signed up for military duty.  
  
“If it's praise you want, you picked the wrong superior.”  
  
“Yeah.” She meets his gaze; in the corner of her eye the droid seems to be doing a scan of something nearby. “Tell me about it.”  
  
A dry smile as he shifts his weight and folds his arms over his chest. “How long do we have, sir?”  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
They're both pretty sore after the run through Tavus's little setup, carries a collection of burn injuries and blaster wounds. Damn security fields and suicide droids, there had been more of them than he cares to count and he's still pissed that Tavus got away. Again.  
  
He glances over at the medbay where the lieutenant still sits on one of the beds, patiently allowing Dorne to tend to her. Her face is calm, neutral, but he remembers her angry grimace as they made a run for the airlock after fighting their way out of the trap, remembers the way the line of her mouth had been taut, her skin grey with exhaustion and held-back anger. She likes a fair fight, he knows.  _Show yourself, fight me._ You don't trick or play the leader of the Havoc squad unless you want her to come after you, fuelled by anger.  
  
Garza had been affirmative this time around and Aric had watched his XO accept the compliments in the same stride as she accepts criticism but beneath the surface, of course, he had spotted satisfaction, maybe even pride. It already feels like a lifetime ago he commanded his own squad and lived and breathed the same kind of approval.  
  
“How are you holding up, Jorgan?” She exits the tiny room that serves as their clinic and walks up to him; he's still not finished running repair systems on his cannon. But Tatooine is hours away, he'll have time.   
  
“No complaints, sir.”  
  
The captain – _Boldry_ , he tries for the billionth time in his head and it still doesn't sound suitable, doesn't seem like _her_ – leans back against the door frame. She looks imposing tonight, as thought the adrenaline rush from earlier has enlarged her somehow. Broad shoulders, clear lines, a stubbornness to her entire posture; she's a welcome, reassuring sight.   
  
_Is she now, Aric?_

“Dorne told me someone was looking for you on our channel earlier.”   
  
No matter how hard he tries he finds it incredibly damn _annoying_ to be watched by someone like Elara Dorne. If he tries to be fair, they're in a cramped space, crammed together and she wouldn't exactly have to extort herself discovering someone else's whereabouts. Even so, it rubs him the wrong way.   
  
Now his commanding officer is looking expectantly at him, so he clears his head and nods, briefly.   
  
”Afraid I have some bad news, sir.” He doesn't wait for her to say anything before he continues. ”Just received a dispatch from Command. It's my old sniper squad, the Deadeyes. They've been captured.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow. ”Go on.”  
  
Aric doesn't really expect her to shuffle their current objectives around for his former squadmates – he's not sure he would have done the same if roles were reversed – but he finds that he's immensely grateful that she simply nods when he's done giving her a first run-down of the case.   
  
”Nar Shaddaa?” She looks at him for a second. ”That's neutral ground.”  
  
”Yeah.” Aric bites back an irritable remark about the stupidity and carelessness required to get yourself surrounded by fucking Imps on a Hutt-controlled moon. ”Doesn't sit right with me. Something's off.”   
  
”You have my permission to investigate.” She throws a glance over her shoulder, as though Dorne would be listening in. Perhaps she is. Once an Imp, and all that. ”And we do know someone in the SIS.”  
  
He holds back a groan. ”I'll contact the annoying agent ASAP.”  
  
“Maybe refrain from calling him that to his face.”  
  
“I'll do my best.” Aric stifles a grimace. “No promises though.”  
  
She turns to leave, but before she does, there's a glance that seems to linger and an expression on her face that he can't read.   
  
“Really sorry to hear about your squad, Jorgan,” she says and her voice hits an unexpected softness that he doesn't quite know how to handle.   
  
Lucky for him, she's gone before he's had time to come up with a reply.

 


	8. Uncharted territory (Tatooine)

  
  
  
  
Anchorhead is unrelenting in its heat and its unpredictability.  
  
Local militia refuses to do anything to decrease the crime rates among the locals, smugglers probably thrive in every shadow here and she can't help thinking the sand holds more unwelcome secrets than anyone can count. It feels like threading on a mine field, on your way to certain destruction. As they hide from a persistent sandstorm at Dreviad outpost Jorgan mutters something under his breath and looks out at the patrolling droids. Then he sighs, taking a seat beside her on the bench in the makeshift cantina where some low-ranking officers seem to prepare a meal. At least that's what she hopes they're doing.  
  
“So the SIS is taking an interest in this dustball, too? What are the odds.”  
  
Erviel looks up from her screen; even with every adjustment she can think of and a few Dorne had suggested, her armor feels _off_ here - too heavy, too thick on her skin, too damn suffocating. Her father used to say he wasn't built for hot weather and she'd find him ridiculous - as though you couldn't adapt yourself and your gear to changing surroundings - but she can feel him now, can see what he meant. The heat wears her down, the mere notion of it grating inside her bones.  
  
"I have to admit that I hate the desert," she says.  
  
"Your secret's safe with me, sir." Jorgan gives her a glance. "What do you reckon they're here for?"  
  
"The SIS? No idea."  
  
Leaning the back of her head against the wall panel, Erviel puts her legs up on a spare seat in from of them and flickers away the personal correspondence. It's not a busy channel, by any means. She's not the kind of soldier that makes a lot of friends, at least not long-term ones and rarely any relationship beyond the casual "see you out there, stay safe" since she got out of her training years. Back then it had been different, always is, and friendships could be forged from disliking the same tutor or sharing a fondness for a special brew; life had been another shape altogether, one for pub crawls and drunken battle simulations. It had been about living there and then, caught up in the moment. But a healthy dose of detachment is required in order to reach the point where's she's at now and she's not one for inviting people into her life only to keep her distance. They had been through that, too, during her training: keeping a cool head, a clear mind, a firm grasp of the regs, come what may. There's something wildly unreasonable about it, about that kind of pragmatism that seems to run counter to everything else in the galaxy. She had embraced it, fast.  
  
Beside her, Jorgan removes his gauntlets and bracers, scratching his neck for a moment.  
  
"Have you heard anything more about the Deadeyes?" she asks.  
  
"Not last time I checked." He's quiet while a group of civilians pass, then turns to her again. "For the best right now. We're unlikely to get out of here any time soon."  
  
Erviel can't hold back a muffled groan and he notices, a smile appearing on his face as their eyes meet.

"Don't count the nights, sir. Doesn't make them go by any faster. Trust me on this."  
  
"Yeah." She nods briefly even though she knows it's advice she'll never follow. "I'll do my best."  
  
Later they have a hot meal and a drink that ends up slightly stronger than expected and she falls asleep thinking about patience and other virtues she's never possessed.  
  
This is the first night in the desert.  
  
Their second night gets cut short by a surprise visit from a bunch of Gamorrean raiders that are nearly managing to salvage a third of their weapon cache before the guards and Havoc squad can defeat them. Afterwards Erviel downs three mugs of bland coffee and declares the night to be over. Jorgan doesn't protest.  
  
The seventh night a dust storm rages as they go over charts, maps and strategies with Dorne, the three of them huddled together in a tent that seems like a leaf-thin cover against the forces outside of it but somehow it endures and they do, as well.  
  
The twenty-fifth night she destroys an ancient being buried deep in the sands, momentarily doubting her own motivation as she considers the Republic and its need for advantages, for those dirty tricks that might win a war. Civilians don't care if Czerka is behind the device that turns the tide, all those tired soldiers down on the ground won't give it a second thought. It's so fucking easy to be sanctimonious in your own head, much less so when the bombs blow up your entire home world and slaughter your children. People tell her this all the time; it's the story of centuries, the quiet little song behind every move the planets make. No fight is fair and she can't bring herself not to aim for it, all the same. Afterwards, when they've made their way back to the scorching heat and sunlight, Jorgan nods at her as though he's offering a delayed approval. It feels like a blow of fresh air in her lungs.  
  
The twenty-eight, thirty-fourth, forty-ninth nights pass by without no remarkable incidents. One morning, before the desert has settled entirely and still appears unfinished beneath their feet and above their heads, they end up where their leads have pointed them. Fuse returns to them the only way he can and his apology smells of fire and wasted kolto, wasted _life_.  
  
And the dead scatter in her thoughts, like burnt sand. She stands motionless for a while after the holocall that wraps up their mission here, stands staring at the quiet channel and her own hands. There are lines, she knows, drawn lines behind which you leave your ghosts behind. Their kind of life is all about finding those lines and running towards them so she shrugs, takes a step to the side and squares her shoulders. _Walk it off, sir._  
  
Jorgan stands beside her when she looks up; she wonders how long he's been there. Wonders, too, why it alters the entire room. She can't remember the last time she allowed someone to have that impact, isn't even sure she's ever done it before.  
  
"You made the right call, sir." His voice is softer than she's ever heard it, richer and warmer and terrifyingly _kind_. It makes her feel like someone who needs to be comforted, cheered up after a bad run or a public failure and she nearly winces when she glances at him again.  
  
Erviel lets out a deep breath. Her head hurts. In a purely ideal setting she'd now proceed back to her private suite, drink half a bottle of something that knocks her brain out and then sleep for however long the transit is going to be once they get out of this hell. In reality she's probably going to be buried in calls and protocols and orders. For the best, she suspects.  
  
"It wasn't a _good_ one,” she says, hoping she sounds more matter-of-factly than she feels right now. Wallowing isn't flattering for an officer.  
  
"Doesn't make it less right."  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
“You're not easily convinced.” Jorgan sounds amused, a little trace of light running through the concerned tone. “It's a good thing, sir. Mostly.”  
  
She smiles at that and there's freedom in it, even here in this burning desert there's freedom and _future_ beyond the buried secrets and lifelong wars.  
  
The fifty-sixth night they leave Tatooine.  
  
  


  


 


	9. Up, close and personnel (BT-7 Thunderclap)

  
  
To the distinct background noise of an outgoing holocall just outside his cabin, Aric finishes his coffee and instantly wishes he had another cup ready.  
  
The increase of soldiers in their ranks since leaving Tatooine has left him with a workload that mirrors the one on Ord Mantell. Not that the numbers are staggering - the general is definitely as careful as ever - but the checkups and the vast amount of intel gathered about each individual keep him damn busy in between missions. They need soldiers. Forces to be deployed and positioned, scattered across the maps as they plan their military operations and hurried out to the battlefield in times of despair. And with that comes the red tape of the Republic. Tonight it seems the entire ship is soaked in it.  
  
"I don't see that Dorne's loyalty needs to be proven further." The captain's voice is sharp; Aric stands with his back to the entrance so he can't see her but he knows the facial expression that matches her tone.  
  
It's one of the required reports to the personnel division, far as he can tell. Personally he doesn't feel half as generous as his superior officer does when it comes to Imperials having a change of heart and, contrary to what most seem to believe, it's not because he hasn't seen it happen. He has. Of course he has. But that's just anecdotal evidence, cherry-picked nonsense that gets swapped in cantinas and shouldn't be considered evidence or statistics. _Statistically_ speaking, a lot of defectors crumble under the weight of their choice. _Statistically_ speaking, defectors aren't stable enough to count on and he refuses to risk the life of his men over some sentimental ideal.  
  
"I don't want to be a hard case-" The male officer's voice is gruff and gets interrupted by notifications on Aric's own holo, dividing his attention. "...rules are rules. This 'top secret thing' won't fly."  
  
There's badly repressed frustration in the tone now and Aric finds himself turning around, hoping to see the man - Captain Kalor, apparently - for himself. He's surprised a high-ranking officer allows himself to act so unprofessional, Imperial defector or not. Protecting classified information is a top priority, even a rookie can figure that out, and the needs of a special force team like Havoc certainly outweighs the needs of the personnel division.  
  
He makes a mental note to himself not to let this Kalor off teh hook and judging by his CO's headshake as she walks past his cabin on the way to her own, she's in full agreement there.  
  
_Right_. The intel stare expectantly at him. _Back to work._  
  
Recruit 45-872, previously stationed on Taris, originally from Coruscant - noble family, the best service record money can buy.  
  
Recruit 34-230, tech expert, recommended by General Garza herself.  
  
Aric sighs, filling in the needed information that will qualify both recruits for a trial run. Or would have, if things were normal and they were all back on Ord Mantell. He's not entirely sure what the procedure entails right now but others will take care of that.  
  
As he makes his way through the ship to get his coffee refilled, he nods at the LT and Dorne who are sitting by one of the intercoms, engaged in a conversation about Dorne's family. He's not all that interested in her private whereabouts but can't help but hear that she's cut all ties to her family since she surrendered to the Republic military - the lieutenant comments on how hard it must have been - and to her credit, Dorne replies that it's not something she's ever given a second thought. Anecdotal as all hell, but this one might actually be made of the kind of steel required for doing what she's done without snapping in the end.  
  
"Yeah, I know what it's like to have your entire family serving," he hears the LT say. This is not news to Aric - he's read up on everyone serving on this ship, no exceptions, but he hasn't memorized everyone's files quite as well as he's memorized hers - and even so it lands at the back of his mind like a new insight, a lead.  
  
Shaking his head, he shuts the door behind him when he reaches his cabin again.  
  
It's just damn ridiculous.  
  
It's just this damn ridiculous _habit_ he has of making observations about her that he can't seem to shake. A gesture here, a stray fact there until it forms a pattern large enough to wrap itself around his thoughts and he doesn't know what to _do_ with it.  
  
Later, he finds himself seeking her out. _You're like a fucking target missile, Jorgan._  
  
“So your mother was a pilot, sir?”  
  
The lieutenant is preparing the ship for departure and looks up at him for a second before she nods. If she's surprised by his personal question, she doesn't let it on.  
  
“Yeah, military brat to the bone. Dad was a medic and died in action when I was fourteen, mum a few years later.” She makes a note of something, checks the galaxy map again and proceeds to investigate the shields and fuel. “Takes a special kind of idiot to sign up after that, but here I am.”  
  
He observes her without saying anything. There’s a fluency in her movements here that he finds fascinating, a rare sort of grace that he has never seen in her before. The LT looks like she was bred for battle – the kind of woman who could take most men in a cantina fight and walk away without scratches – and he’d never describe her as delicate in any way whatsoever. Yet her approach to the minutia of taking care of the ship is just that. _Delicate_. Precise and determined like everything else she does. Something in his chest rumbles when he realises he has a hard time averting his gaze. He’s suddenly very aware of stupid details: the angle of her shoulder blades beneath that casual tunic she wears aboard the ship, the curve of her lower back, the slant of those broad hips.  
  
Many human females look so dishearteningly fragile. Slender and small, like there’s no raw strength in them, merely a kind of calculating slyness. Aric doesn’t know what the hell to do with slyness except despise it, avoid it. The captain’s tall and muscular frame promises so much _more_ ; it poses a very nicely shaped, honest challenge.  
  
“When you enlist at a young age, military quickly becomes all you know,” he says, to shift his focus. "Not always a good thing, either."  
  
“Yeah. I wanted to be a swoop racer,” her face cracks open slightly at that comment, her eyes glittering and her mouth curls into a rare sort of smile. A small, tentative one, nothing like those cocky grins she offers the world. It spreads, contagious and delightful and unexpected.  
  
“Of course you did.” They both know she an atrocious - if terrifyingly _cheerful_ \- driver and the shared knowledge suddenly feels intimate, a bond that runs between their bodies.   
  
Their eyes meet over the galaxy map; hers are still glittering, the fire in them landing somewhere in his mid-section.

  


* * *

  
  
  
She doesn't flirt with Balkar the next time they meet.  
  
It hits her afterwards, once they're going over the scant and encrypted info about the Deadeyes he's provided and she notices Jorgan's glances on her as though he's evaluating something or trying to analyze her behaviour or whatever it is he's doing those times he catches him looking at her in this manner. She's got nothing to hide that she knows of but he's sharp enough to make her feel caught in the act all the same.  
  
Whatever it is that makes her wish for his company whenever they're aboard the ship or in the battlefield, it's got her cornered.   
  
Whatever it is that makes her drag out their conversations and adopt that _posture_ around him, it's complex and complicated in a head-spinning kind of way. It rushes through her veins as she makes a weird remark to a perfectly neutral question about weapon inspections – _looking for an excuse to go through my personal effects, are we_ \- and twists its way down her spine when Jorgan doesn't scoff at her but returns the favour. _There something you don't want me to find?_ She honestly doesn't know the answer to that question.  _  
  
_ Whatever it is.   
  
She doesn't flirt with Balkar; she almost wishes she had.  
  
Balkar would have been _simple_.

   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Havoc's core team to be accompanied by a small military unit because it makes sense to me. Not sure Bioware agrees.


	10. Playing politics (Alderaan)

  
  
  
  
Politics is just war without bloodshed, someone tells her during basic, a long time ago now. And the finest art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. _Jedi nonsense,_ her friend Kaara mutters. _Tell that to the sergeants at the front lines_. Kaara's crisp and clear, as unsentimental in life as she is in death - which comes way too soon, before Erviel is even out of the Academy. The perfect soldier to the end, perfectly expendable.  
  
Erviel wishes she could be the same breed of fighter but regardless of what her record states she's got a knack for insubordinate thoughts, a body full of doubts and a restless mind that never did manage to learn the difference between the armed conflicts of the Indecta and the Kymodoon eras.  
  
There's been a lot of blood since then, more than enough already and so much more to come. War has hard edges and endless protocol and she's trained for it, for survival and victories. It comes easy, despite it all. Politics never will. Trying to navigate her way around smooth-talking nobility in their safe, gilded halls makes her long for blasters, for the rush of adrenaline as her vibroblade cuts through armor. Brutal, yes, but _understandable_.  
  
She's grateful for Dorne as the Juran Mountains close around them like the jaws of a damn beast. Dorne with appropriate comments and an endless supply of facts and research, steering them carefully from her easily overlooked position in the background. _Here's what we know about House Thul, sir. Let me know if you need more diplomatic intel on Rist._ Everything on this world seems to be in conflict with everything else and it's hard to see the peaceful, lush core world from her old training holos when she witnesses this growing civil war first-hand. Hard, too, to understand how the mess will clean up, with or without Republic interference. _We should stay out of this_ , Jorgan had concluded as they walked out of their first meeting with Duke Organa.  
  
They're resting at one of the southern wardposts, among officers and droids and accompanied by the buzz of a group of techs nearby, repairing a holoterminal. Around them night falls, soft and slow.  
  
Erviel grabs a pack of kolto gel from her bag and begins to remove the gauntlet from her left hand.  
  
"That still hurts, sir?" Jorgan looks sideways at her; his gaze travels from her face down to the Lraida bite that glares back, still red and slightly infected. Last night Dorne had tended to it - as meticulous as only Dorne can be - and it is mending even if it seems to take forever.  
  
Her skin stings and stirs as the gel does its job; she clenches her teeth for a second. It's a banal injury and she refuses to spend too much time thinking about it, it wouldn't even have happened if she hadn't been looking at her holocom instead of the road ahead. _You drive that speeder like you stole it from a Kath hound, sir._ "I'll live."  
  
"Good to know," he retorts levelly, _dryly_ , but she knows when it's meant to be funny now, can tell his various tones apart. Give or take. If the stars are aligned and the wind comes from the east.  
  
They're silent for a while, observing the surroundings and running the usual equipment checks. Erviel spots Dorne chatting to a medical droid, probably trying to haggle. She claims she does it as a part of her duties but it's pretty clear she's actually enjoying herself, taking pleasure in getting a good bargain.  
  
"We should get something to eat," Jorgan says then. "You up for some field rations?"  
  
She holds out her non-injured hand and waits for him to hand her the portion - likely some meat-tasting loaf of bread and a sufficiently nutritious soup - while he prepares it. There's a pull between them now, more often than not, whenever they're performing their usual routines, as though something's been altered. It's that damn flirting, she knows. She's never been good at casual no matter how much she pretends and she has never been good at non-casual either, so there's that. A whole lifetime of bad choices and walks of shame but nothing will come of this because Aric Jorgan is a model soldier and they're in the Republic army.  
  
It's just a little something to pass the time.  
  
It's just the way her skin soars when his fingers brush against hers; the quick look he gives her then, as if she's done something inappropriate; the impulse to withdraw and move away when Dorne approaches, catching them doing _nothing_ and how it rattles in her for a long time afterwards, every move causing echoes.  
  
"There you go, sir." Jorgan's hand is suddenly far away and Erviel sits back, digging into the food with more enthusiasm than it should be humanly possible to conjure up when looking at the content of her plate.  
  
Around them it's nearly dark.  
  
  


* * *

 

 

Alderaan takes too damn long.  
  
Everything about the planet is so massive: long stretches of ground to be covered; so many holovids about its history that he'd be dead before he's had time to watch them all; a vast, colorful culture full of beauty that isn't lost on him but he simply has no _patience_ for it; bloodlines struggling to reach around it all, claim dominance and power. It's a place to get lost in and he hates that thought.  
  
He's eager to get the fuck off this world, catch Tavus and be done with that part of his life, forever. So many bigger issues at play here and the hunt for the defectors of Havoc squad has begun to feel like an itch to scratch - impossible to forget, overshadowing everything but it doesn't feel like it used to. The raw anger, plasma-like and flaring, had died with Fuse, perhaps even earlier and has been replaced with a growing concern for the future.  
  
"I'm cutting this short," the commander says and heads out on another mission directed by one of Alderaan's important Houses.  
  
And then she volunteers to get herself imprisoned as part of some cat-and-mouse game with the nobles and Aric stifles a growling protest, his grip tightening around his rifle.  
  
She's gone for fourteen hours and twenty-six minutes; he doesn't even pretend he isn't counting.  
  


* * *

 

  
Politics is war without bloodshed someone tells her, a long time ago.  
  
It's a lie. There's been too much blood.  
  
In the end Alderaan still stands, the questionable support from the Republic like bitter seeds scattered all over the fields and mountains, poured into the lakes and oceans.  
  
In the end they have Gearbox cornered and trapped and he's _prey_ despite the traps he's set for them, despite the droid he thinks will tear them apart, despite his experience and lack of fear.  
  
_Welcome to the future of war, kid._  
  
Back on Ord Mantell, as she stepped out of the shuttle and into the fire, he had patted her back. On Alderaan she drives a vibroblade through his.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
"I liked him, you know." The captain says, looking at Aric over her shoulder. They're waiting for the elevator to their hangar, both a bit worse for wear after the fight with the former Havoc technician.  
  
"Everyone did," Aric replies. He's not sure _he_ did, but then he didn't dislike the man either; Bex Kolos used to be a man with a good, solid reputation and never caused any trouble before he decided to be an idiot. Of course he had to go and become a lethal, disloyal kind of idiot serving the Empire but there you go, he supposes.   
  
"Such a waste."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He searches for her gaze and frowns when she looks up at him. There's something _exhausted_ in her face, a shade that wasn't there before today and he's not sure what or why but he battles the urge to touch her, offer some kind of support. Not really his strength outside of the battlefield, which he's never even thought about before - women seem to like him just fine, he's usually been able to get what he needs - but it's been on his mind a lot lately. A new set of parameters he can't figure out, a whole new code for moments exactly like this one where there's no blaster-fire or clear-cut orders to steer them. And the captain gives him a look that suggests she expects him to say something more - or _different_ , he can't tell - the bottom of her eyes like dark pits of lava, burning through him in seconds. _Yeah, don't tell her that._  
  
When her holocom beeps right before the elevator arrives, he's almost relieved.   
  
  


 


	11. Five times the Captain and Jorgan tried to have a drink and one time they did (Various)

**1.**  
  
"When Garza tells you to enjoy yourself, you go out there and you damn well _enjoy_ yourself!" The commander sits cross-legged in the ship's small gym facility, smiling.  
  
"Sir, with all due respect-" Dorne cuts herself off; unless Aric is way off base here, he thinks there's a glint of temptation in the sergeant's gaze when Boldry waves that bottle of gin from Alderaan around. It had been one of the parting gifts, courtesy of House Organa. But knowing her, she won't be joining in on any drinks - the commander probably caught her during a workout when she had nowhere to hide from the social demands of her shipmates. He's served with soldiers like Dorne before - some would probably say Aric is one of them, though rarely to his face - excellent at their job, hopeless at everything else. While it can stall your career it's usually not as big of a deal the higher up you climb and in special forces you're almost expected to be an aloof runt of a Kath hound. Comes with the territory.  
  
Havoc's current CO isn't made that way, but she seems surprisingly open-minded about her crew. _She even puts up with you on a bad day, Jorgan.  
_  
"Relax, Dorne. I'm not giving orders."  
  
"Right, sir. Of course." Dorne's posture visibly loosens up at and somewhere over her head, Aric catches the captain's amused gaze which makes him stifle a grin. "I really do have an awful load of work that needs to be done."  
  
The commander nods, still smiling while the other woman slips out of the room, everything about her signaling relief. It's one of those moments, he thinks. One of those _things_ she does that could keep him up at night. That smile, the casual side of her that's so far removed from the woman he usually sees when they're on duty. It's there, of course and because he's been allowed to see it on occasion he now sees it even as they're out in the field or drawing up strategies - _sees_ it, a distraction and a blessing at the same time. He can handle it. These kinds of things come and go and serve as temporary entertainment, anyone who's been stationed out on a ship somewhere can tell you about it.  
  
He takes a seat on a bench that belongs to the hack squat machine beside her; she offers him a wry smile and he knows, in his bones and his gut, that it's much more than temporary, a lot deeper than entertainment.  
  
_Damn_.  
  
"So," she says and gives a nod to the bottle that's still in her hand. "It's just you and me and then. You up for a quick shot?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
No time like the present, he supposes.  
  
They _had_ tried to celebrate after Tavus fell but the scene on his ship that loops in their collective memory isn't one that merits much cheering or drinking. Aric hadn't mourned the bastard, not like the General who seemed genuinely sad, but he's not brainwashed enough to enjoy killing Republic soldiers regardless of what they've done. It goes against a lot of things - codes, protocol, ethics, that soft-spoken little voice at the back of your head that war silences completely if you're lucky. Aric still hears it and he can bet anything the same goes for his CO.  
  
He _had_ felt a vindictive kind of joy when he unloaded his rifle and watched the man who destroyed so much fall to the floor, had bitten back a few triumphant remarks. And then nothing. Weariness, if that. All the traitorous scumbags are gone now and the galaxy is better for it but there's not one single war that doesn't leave you poorer than it finds you no matter which side you're on. There's no drinking to that.  
  
And almost on cue, just as the commander is about to uncork the bottle, Dorne returns, clearing her throat.  
  
"There's a Master Oteg who wishes to speak to you in private, Commander."  
  
Boldry frowns. " _Master_ Oteg. A Jedi?"  
  
"Indeed, sir."  
  
"Alright, I'll talk to him right away."  
  
Aric watches the captain shrug off every last scrap of leisure, rake a hand through her hair and shove the gin out of sight before she fires up her holocom, her face a neutral, fully composed mask.  
  
  
  
  
  
**2.**  
  
His cabin always smells faintly of weapons. It's a familiar scent that runs through her entire history, reminds her of home and work and of him, lately. _Doesn't_ _everything_?  
  
"Maybe we won't have to break a Jedi legend out of jail for a while now," she says and leans against the wall. “Maybe we're done with that.”  
  
Jorgan snorts. "They say hope is a good thing to have, sir."  
  
It had been a strange objective to begin with and only got more peculiar as they went along and Erviel had caught herself wondering a few times what the hell she'd report back to Garza and which bits she'd have to alter or conveniently forget.  
  
"What was it like? To sense the Force?"  
  
She shakes her head to hold back an involuntary shudder. It had scared her, just as the thought of Jedi and Sith has always done, a deeply unsettling notion twisting and worming its way into her brain like a whisper of doubt. No matter what weapons they forge, what mastery they achieve of their bodies and tech, the Force runs through it all, disarms them. That stitch of worry like a wound inside and she realizes she longs for that bottle she nearly bought with her before deciding that booze isn't the best way to go.  
  
"Scary," she admits instead. Not that she's fully convinced it _was_ the Force because she's never fully convinced - _you'd be a terrible Jedi, Boldry, your lack of faith is incredible_ \- but it _had_ been something outside of her imagination. "And... intrusive."  
  
He gives her a long glance, his face serious. "Yeah, I can imagine."  
  
"Trained with a guy during basic who turned out to be Force-sensitive." He had been a friend, once. They used to raid the storage room for snacks after long sessions and he had promised to keep in touch as he was on his way to the Jedis but they had never spoken since. A new path for him, a new kind of life. Less durasteel and laser, more ancient mysteries and meditation. She had pitied him then, wouldn't take his place for anything in the worlds. "Freaked me out back then, too."  
  
Jorgan nods; he works idly on an assault cannon as they speak, hands running over the metal surfaces. There's a peculiar kind of peace in seeing someone else go about their duties, a thread of reassuring safety running through it. She wants to just stand here, watching him indefinitely.

Of course that's not how their line of work is constructed, not the way their galaxy was built so when C2-N2 approaches outside the open door, calling out for its master, Erviel takes a deep breath and shoves everything else aside.  
  
  
  
  
  
**3.**  
  
He spots the Alderaanian gin as soon as she enters his cabin; for a fraction of a second his somewhat pathetic desire to be around her almost gets the better of him and he thinks _just a little while, a short break, surely we can do that._  
  
Of course they can't. _Won't_ .  
  
"Good news, sir," he says before he has time to regret it. "Balkar finally decoded that first set of coordinates."  
  
If she's as strangely disappointed as he is, she doesn't let it show. Instead she nods and looks over her shoulder, as though she's evaluating the situation.  
  
"Then lets load up and get them out of there."  
  
He hadn't expected any other outcome but he's grateful all the same.  
  
"Ready when you are, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
**4.**  
  
Jorgan appears to be in a good mood, she concludes: there's a shift in his expression, a little change to his voice.  
  
He arches an eyebrow. "Starting to think this drink will never actually happen, sir."  
  
Erviel grins, folding her arms across her chest as she looks at him. "Yeah."  
  
They've just listened to the ship droid on the intercom, estimating their arrival to Coruscant spaceport to occur within approximately 0.5 hours. It's a change of plans as she had set course for Dantooine just this morning. A final attempt at giving the crew a few moments of off-duty entertainment without traveling too far away from High Command but just as she had announced this to everyone, General Garza had contacted them, cutting their leave short.  
  
"You could always make me dinner instead," she suggests. Couple of months ago and it would have been bold or downright stupid, would have earned her his eternal disapproval but this regimen of flirting is well established by now, almost feels part of their routine.  
  
His answer comes without pause. "You wouldn't like that."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"Not right now." He lowers his gaze suddenly, rubbing a hand over his forehead while the other one holds out a small package for her. "I got you a little something..."  
  
Now _this_ isn't part of their ritual, far from it and Erviel feels like she's being observed by everyone on the ship - or possibly everyone in the Core Worlds - when she takes the gift and studies it. A _necklace_. A necklace with a pretty stone in a thin chain, more exclusive-looking than most trinkets you'd find in the marketplaces around the galaxy for sure, she wonders where he got it and when he tells her, she finds it hard to sort through her own thoughts, _center_ them.  
  
"Thought it'd look nice on you."  
  
_Shit. Say something smooth, Boldry._  
  
"I... uh, thanks." She holds up the stone to study it a bit more in the steely grey tech-light coming from behind her. There's no memory of anything like this in her body, she can't even recall ever having owned a piece of jewelry before and she's suddenly amused at the idea of putting it on with her climate suit or underneath her armor. When is a good time for wearing a necklace anyway? To bed? To her next cantina crawl with her old friends from basic? "Maybe next time you can get me something a little more practical. Like thermite."  
  
_Yeah, you should have brought the booze._  
  
But Jorgan gives a brief laugh, washing away most of the lingering impression of having fucked everything up. "What makes you so sure there's going to be a next time?"  
  
  
  
  
  
**5.**  
  
  
"We should have that drink now," she tells him after she's made him her XO. "Celebrate."  
  
"Yes, sir," he says and then, as he hears how curtly the words fall, he adds: "I'd like that."  
  
They really should. In fact, whenever he permits his mind to roam free it seems to come up with countless of things the two of them should be doing, really damn well _ought_ to be doing if it were up to him.  
  
It isn't.  
  
The city is swelling, bursting at the seams around them while they're leaving the Senate plaza side by side. Orders are loud and clear, High Command is worked up and the Empire has thrown them all into war. Still feels as unreal as ever here on Coruscant, though. Like war never breaks through.  
  
His CO points at one of the lower buildings by the spaceport. A restaurant, by the look of things. "Maybe a proper dinner, too. To go with the drinks."  
  
Aric can't remember the last time he had a proper meal - he makes a mental note to pester Dorne again about those shipboard rations - let alone an exquisitely cooked one. "I'm on board."  
  
They walk quickly; the commander does everything that way - talks fast, shoots fast, makes up her mind without preamble. He likes it, makes him trust her with his life. Hells, with _everyone's_ lives.  
  
"Well, I hear Balmorra's lovely this time of the year," she says when they've reached the hangar. "Lots of bombed-out ruins and military outposts."  
  
  
  
  
**6.**  
  
They finally manage their drink on Balmorra. Or technically they're in orbit over the planet but she figures it counts. For something.  
  
Jorgan sits in the briefing room when she finds him. He seems idle, which usually never happens and when it does it means he's too angry about something to get any work done. Given their last recruit and the holocall to Garza afterwards, Erviel is fairly sure she knows exactly what's wrong. She slumps down beside him.  
  
"Tanno Vik, sir," he mutters under his breath but loud enough for her to hear.  
  
Erviel sighs. "I know."  
  
"I know it's not my call but to have a Havoc soldier who leads good men behind enemy lines and wastes their lives just for profit-" he cuts himself off, shaking his head. Every line is tense, his face taut with frustration and disgust.

"Don't let it get to you, Jorgan." Her hands reach for the gin and she shifts in her seat; her shoulder bumps into his, their arms brushing against each other and he's solid warmth and _fire_ somewhere deep under her skin. She pauses for a beat, then another, reluctant to pull back but embarrassed by her own reaction. _You're starved, Boldry. Get over it._ "He's not worth it," she adds and her voice has slippery edges around every word.  
  
Without hesitation she takes a mouthful of gin, grimaces and wipes the bottle clean before passing it on. Battlefield drinking, no finesse required.  
  
"Here. As promised. Months ago."  
  
"Thanks," he says and repeats the procedure.  
  
When he returns the alcohol again she leans back in her seat, feeling her body relent as if it's shedding the burden of an endless, _aching_ mission.

  


 


	12. Clearly drawn lines (Quesh/Nar Shaddaa)

  
  
  
  
"It's not serious, sir." Jorgan glares at her from where he's sitting, crouched behind a tree.  
  
"Doesn't matter." She kneels next to him and quickly shows him a medkit, as though the likelihood of her being allowed to do this is directly related to how time-consuming he imagines the process to be. It's not that unlikely this is just how his reasoning goes, though. _I've got you figured out now, Jorgan._ "If you get injured on a poisonous swamp of a planet, I'm going to force you to tend to it properly."  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"I don't have enough lieutenants to lose you to the damn flora and fauna of Quesh, Jorgan. Now, hold still and be quiet."  
  
The wound _is_ a minor one - a deep slash across his right forearm - but the edges are already flaring red and angry, giving the injury a somewhat sharp smell. Eviel sprays more anti-bacteriell gel than necessary and grimaces slightly as she pokes at the torn flesh with the tip of the medpack. Jorgan sighs; she can see his chest rise and fall in the corner of her eye. A combat medic's daughter should be better than this, she's well aware, but she's never had a nursing bone in her body, can barely stomach her own injuries, let alone others'. As far as Erviel is concerned, bleeding and dying is for medbays and people like Dorne who gets excited at the thouhght of alien diseases and new treatments for blaster-related trauma.  
  
"Did you skip medical training entirely, sir?" His tone is harsh, but when she glances up at him his gaze softens considerably and she struggles not to grin.  
  
"You'll survive it, I'm sure."  
  
He winces when she applies the last of the gel across the wound. "Will have to take your word for it."  
  
It's been an intense run here on Quesh, more complicated than it had looked at first glance of couse but what mission isn't. Imps and beasts all around and a dying, toxic earth that feels like an elaborate fucking _trap_. She hates places like this, places where you get the impression the environment has sided with the enemy – it's not like Balmorra or Taris where every step is a reminder of hurt, an unhealed and ugly scar cutting deep into the soil. Quesh is just a place that seems to hate everyone.  
  
Jorgan shifts position somewhat but his arm remains in her lap, caught between her hands and a medpack; his body heat soars against her palms, skin-like fur rubbing against the tip of her thumb as she quickly outlines the injury again, to double-check it or just _touch_ him a bit more, a little longer.  She pats the tended wound then, aiming for some kind of reassuring attitude. Not that she's ever been very good at those. His gaze falls heavy on her when she rises to her feet again, making her voice sound _off_.   
  
"There you go."   
  
He nods, but says nothing else.   
  
They both get up, brush the remains of Quesh off their armour and squares their shoulders in an almost synchronized motion. Soldier behaviour, she thinks as they walk up to Dorne and Vik who are enjoying energy bars and coffee with some of the troops in the area.   
  
Erviel grabs a mug and leans back against the nearest surface that looks sturdy enough. The tiredness in her head - a dark streak scattered among the thoughts and strategies there, a flurry of unrest - lands in her bones sometimes, drags her to the ground. It feels like she hasn't sat down properly since Ord Mantell.   
  
"So." A deep voice interrupts her sweet alone-time with her coffe. "Pays off to be the XO, huh?"  
  
She knows she will regret answering Tanno Vik because you damn well always regret answering Tanno Vik. Still, she raises an eyebrow and empties her coffee mug. "Meaning?"  
  
"Sure didn't tend to my wounds personally."  
  
She feels that itch again, the one that burns through her hands, making her fingers twitch with the urge to punch her subordinate in the face. It sure doesn't help that he's already setting up some shady side-business as a weapon's dealer, giving her more headache and extra work than she had bargained for when they dragged him out of the trenches on Balmorra.  
  
"Shut it, sergeant."  
  
Vik's voice behind her is dry like the desert when she walks away without looking at either him or Jorgan. "Sir, yes, _sir_."  
  


* * *

 

 

  
  
"You've walked through the streets of Nar Shaddaa unarmed, sir?" And _drunk_ , he thinks but doesn't say. He sounds enough like someone's neurotic aunt as it is.   
  
The captain coughs, though Aric is pretty sure it's her way of covering up an amused snort.   
  
"I'm never unarmed." Her eyes flash a little; there's a jolt of heat twisting along his spine. "Need proof?"  
  
Aric averts his gaze, pretending to study a Galactic Network holo about various fringe conflicts they already know about from Republic intel. "Hardly, sir."  
  
She sits down by the holo, too, tilting her head back against the seat and spreading her arms open. Yeah, definitely drunk he decides. Maybe not as drunk as he had imagined she'd be after a ladies' night out with fellow soldiers but there are a hundred little things about her posture that tells him she's been drinking. He's bad at that sort of R & R himself. Infamous for it back when he did his training but people quickly learned that it was just his way. _Bottling_ _it_ _all_ _up_ _inside_ , _yeah?_ _Healthy_ _as_ _fuck_ , _Jorgan_.   
  
Watching his commander now there's a strange mix of jealousy and sympathy running through his head - she deserves it and part of him wishes _he_ had been the one in those gross cantinas, numbing his system with booze. Doing something not out of necessity or duty. It's been way too long even for him.   
  
"Jaxo knows how to have fun," she says casually, giving him a glance before she returns her attention to the holo. "I'll give her that."  
  
She's let her hair grow since Ord Mantell, the semi-shaved style morphing into a thick ponytail or some kind of intricate bun; it looks nice, he prefers her in long hair though he can't say why in all the freaking stars he even cares about it, just knows that he does.   
  
Tonight she has let it out she also, he notices, wearing the jewlry he got her. The stone rests slightly below her collarbones, half-hidden by strands of dark hair but he sees it and when she discovers him looking at it her grin slips into something else, something almost _shy_. Which is the most ridiculous word to ever associate with the woman beside him, Aric knows, but that's what comes to mind. She opens her mouth as if she's about to speak but doesn't; her hand comes up to her neck instead, rubbing it while she watches the holo again.   
  
The moment, whatever it is, passes.  
  
He shakes his head, clears his throat.  
  
"Make sure to visit the medbay before you hit your cabin, sir," he says as he gets up. "We'll set course for Hoth in just a few hours."


	13. Fire and ice (Hoth)

  
  
The cold fills up her head, like a permanent stun.  __  
  
Climate suits will keep you alive, surely, but they can't fully remove the ache of being frozen to the bone. __  
  
"This place isn't a planet, it's a punishment." Erviel hurries inside the tent somewhere in the Icefall Plains, her breath like a shadow in front of her. "Tell me there's coffee?" __  
  
"There's coffee," Jorgan replies; he's immersed in the setup of the tent's heating and she hopes the vendor back at the last outpost had been upfront about everything, otherwise they'll end up freezing to death before they've even reached the starship wrecks they're here for in the first place. "And a couple of extra stims on the ground over there-" he nods towards his pack. "Recommend taking them, sir." __  
  
She does and then sits down on the ground, cross-legged and tired. Her back creaks. Some planets adds a decade to your age right away, she's never been more convinced than she is now. The issues here on Hoth stretch wide and messy and there's just so much they'd have to  _do_ before the situation becomes reasonably stable again. A military presence in disarray can be worse than having no military presence at all, she's quite aware of that. It's not part of their objective but it's still part of the Republic and she feels responsible, somehow. __  
  
"If Laskin is the best they've got..." She sighs; the concern slips out of her like a breath. __  
  
Jorgan looks up. "Give the kid a break. He's tougher than he seems." __  
  
"Didn't realize you  _had_ soft spots, Sergeant." She smiles into her leftover coffee. It's just entirely too much fun to tease him even if it's bordering on being too easy. __  
  
He makes a noise that sounds caught between a snort and a laugh and there's a pull in her chest when she meets his gaze again. "We all have our secrets, sir." __  
  
  
  


* * *

__  
  
  
  
  
For her, it's the gashes of softness, the spots of light in the fabric of momentum and force. __  
  
At dusk on Taris, a hurried sweep of shadow across the tent where he stands, one hand wiping over his face. She doesn't ask what's wrong, doesn't need to know. As soon as he feels her presence he straightens his back and his expression hardens, the loose contours from before completely gone. __  
  
One night on the ship, overhearing him talk to a newly recruited tech; his tone falls low, a slow swelling warmth in its wake. __  
  
His face - every corner of it, every scar and shade - when he devotes time to finding the Deadeyes. There's a dedication there that touches her, lands deep inside. __  
  
  
__  


* * *

__  
  
  
  
For him, it's the fire. __  
  
Not just the beacons burning behind her battlefield strategies or her war room presence - though he must admit the images of her standing there with her arms folded and the lines of her mouth firm as steel are images that keep spinning around in his head at night. No, it's the fire of  _her_ , that part of her personality that claws its way through everything. __  
  
Catching the better part of a crude joke she makes to raise the spirit of a bunch of soldiers stationed on Taris, then later repeats to the Havoc squad because she never knows when to stop and it chafes in him, makes him clench his teeth, but he has to look away all the same, to hide the fact that he's laughing. __  
  
Watching her make her way through a crowded cantina on Alderaan, head held high though she's just hissed  _fucking nightmare, I'd rather wrestle Kath hounds_ ; there's gravitas in her, a force in her that helps her through the galaxy and Aric  _admires_ her more than he can say. __  
  
Her eyes - the gentle spark in them - when she's just woken up in their tent on Hoth, side by side on a reasonably warm bedroll and shoulder to shoulder as though that would keep the cold out. She blinks a few times, disoriented and slow; Aric clears his throat and widens the space between them but her gaze lingers. __  
  
  
__  


* * *

__  
  
  
  
The cold fills her up; it sits in her bones, her mind. __  
  
That's the trite thing about it all, how it's always the same. Hundreds of thousands of years and it's always the  _same_ . __  
  
She takes a few extra steps in the briefing room, decreasing the distance between their bodies without breaking any protocol, raising any eyebrow. He looks at her without a word but that arch to his mouth is telling her a million things at once. A nod out of context, a smile behind a holo, a few words in the mail that means nothing to anybody else. __  
  
Always the same. And yet everything is new.  __  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
__  
  
"Look," he finally snaps as they make their way back to base after having recruited Yuun at long last. " _Sir_ . If you have a moment, I'd like to talk, when we're back on the Thunderclap." __  
  
  
  


 


	14. Private matters (BT-7 Thunderclap)

 

He immediately regrets his request to speak with her on the Thunderclap.  
  
It's the practical thing to do, of course, and they're both practical people but Aric can't say he's ever been particularly good at these sort of things. Talking about matters he prefers showing, it just doesn't sit right with him. Off duty it's so much easier. Off duty in a cantina where nobody knows your name and you can satisfy whatever impractical need you might have. It's not something he does often, there simply isn’t enough _time_ for it. Even less so now with the galaxy burning around them but here they are.  
  
Or here _he_ is, at least.  
  
They’re waiting for official briefing on the next steps in their strategy to take on the Gauntlet and he hopes, he realizes as he can hear the Commander’s voice outside his cabin, that they’ll have to head to Coruscant right away, stalling this pathetic conversation.  
  
A second later there’s a knock on the wall panel outside his open door.  
  
_Well, damn_.  
  
“You wanted to talk?”  
  
There’s something infuriatingly calm about her tone, he decides. Like she’s been expecting this. _Shouldn’t she, Jorgan?_ He hasn’t exactly played it smooth so far - that necklace had been a shot in the dark and emptied most of his arsenal of romantic gestures - but even so he’d like to think he’s a little more professional than some rookie making puppy eyes at that pretty LT out in the field and it shouldn't be so damn _obvious_ what she does to him.   
  
“I didn’t think it was possible to make thirty-two kilos of durasteel look good,” he hears himself say a little while later and decides there and then to never try another pick-up line for the rest of his life. Who the fuck compliments someone on their armor?  
  
But then again this captain - _your blasted CO, Jorgan, maybe you should ask Dorne about the codes of all the regs you’re violating_ \- might just be the amazingly rare sort of woman who gets it, because her mouth curls in a wide grin and she tilts her head to the side, observing him for a beat.  
  
“Glad I can inspire my men,” she says and there’s that look in her eyes again. That swagger to her that’s been eating away at his patience since Ord Mantell and he doesn’t even remember when it stopped being annoying and became part of her appeal. His throat feels dry.  
  
“Look, you’re a remarkable woman. But you’re still my CO. If I ever cross a line or go to far, you let me know.”  
  
There’s a pause - feels like a couple of minutes, but he knows that’s not right - when she just looks at him. _Looks_ at him and her face is open and warm but she’s silent and he’s about to say something else when all of a sudden she crosses the floor and pulls him closer.  
  
“What you need is a woman who can put up with you, Jorgan.”  
  
Her mouth is on his as soon as the last syllable of her sentence reaches the air between them; her hands strong and urgent on his chest and he wraps one arm around her waist for support. Human women, he thinks briefly, trying to recall the last time he kissed one but the edges of his memory blur when the captain pushes up against him, making a soft gasping sound as he kisses her back. Cathar do it differently but he has come to appreciate the human way after all his years in the Republic military, almost prefers it by now. It's slower, takes more effort and the payoff's usually great.  
  
How long has he thought about this? Longer than he cares to recognize at the very least, probably longer than that, too. So many constructed images in his head, behind his closed eyes during long transit hours and _nothing_ has prepared him for the reality of her in his arms. The warmth of her, the solid heat of her frame and lips, those damned-  
  
She breaks the kiss as abruptly as she initiated it and Aric steps back, reluctant even as his logical side has begun to return with the lack of physical contact. They’re surrounded by people on a Republic vessel and she’s his CO even when she looks at him like she wants to tear off their clothes, stat. _Would you try to stop her?_  
  
“Whew.” He exhales once and inhales deeply. His chest still rumbles, helplessly. “For the record, you kiss like most people punch.”  
  
_Again with the questionable compliments, Jorgan._  
  
The Captain says nothing else but he can hear her chuckle under her breath as she leaves.

  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
It takes a meeting with Garza to sober her up.  
  
A completely unrelated meeting, thank the stars, but a meeting all the same. Republic command in the flesh, face to face and every regulation Erviel has ever been taught creeps back into her consciousness.  
  
Back on the ship she paces the floor in her personal cabin, staring into assorted holos for a while, trying to sort the flurry of thoughts, impressions and feelings that have more or less buried her over the past few days. Piled up and piled up until she struggles to breathe; she can't even begin to remember everything.  
  
She remembers, however, Jorgan's body under her hands and that just won't _do_.  
  
"I need to apologize for our encounter earlier," she says as she marches her way into his quarters, scratching her neck to keep her hands occupied. "It was highly unprofessional."  
_  
To say the least, Boldry._  
  
Jorgan watches her intently, a small frown visible in his face.  
  
"I want you to know that I've never... it's not- it's unsanctioned behavior-" _Shit_ , she should have repressed this urge entirely, stored it at the back of her mind like a neatly tucked-away trauma or something similar, like any good soldier would. But no, of course she had gone the opposite direction and broken every reg - _reasonable_ regs too, perfectly understandable, appropriate rules against fraternizing and for respecting the chain of command. Dorne could probably count the ways in which this qualifies as harassment. "I put you in an awkward position, you being my XO and-"  
  
"Look," Jorgan finally cuts her off. "You want to end this thing, just say so. No need to go all Dorne on me."  
  
"I don't _want_ to end it." She sighs, allowing the meaning of their words to settle in her gut. "That's the problem."  
  
“I see.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Then I'd say we have no problem, sir.”  
  
There's a shift in the room, in her _mind_ , as he takes a few steps so they're mere inches apart. For so long now, long enough to feel like part of her being, she's wanted him. _Wanted_ in a sense that goes beyond what she usually feels when she flirts with someone, when she downs a chilled drink and fucks a wide-eyed civvy who cannot stop admiring the fact that she's a military officer. Stars, she wants him like that, too, breathless and hissing obscenities in her ear, but there's something else at play here and it fills her from the inside, makes it hard to breathe as he closes the distance between them and grabs her wrists to pull her towards him.  
  
They stand like that for a while, her hands sprawled over his shirt, his hands firm on her hips and the heat of them spreads, a torrent in her blood and bones. When she tilts her head to look him in the eyes she notices that he smiles, only a little, only as much as he ever smiles but it's _enough_.  
  
“We'll figure something out then,” she says, weakly.  
  
He nods, not taking his eyes off her. She moves one of her hands up to cradle the back of his head as he leans in and kisses her with such force they both stumble back against the wall.

 

 


	15. Acceptable losses (Belsavis)

 

In the wake of the battle of the Gauntlet, Aric is left with a large portion of Dorne’s usual tasks on the ship and if he hadn’t already come to respect her for her part in taking down the superweapon prototype and sustaining heavy injuries in the process, this would probably serve as a good eye-opener, too.

The woman must have enhanced patience, he decides. Or at the very least some implants that boost her tolerance for bureaucracy and long-winding procedures. Of course he's had these kinds of duties before in his career but not on this scale, not at this level.

The captain, arms crossed and head tilted back against the wall, observes him as he works some nights, offering input and grumbles with him as they come across particularly messy patches of red-tape-speak and complications. Tonight she's restless, he can tell by the terseness in her expression, every line and edge stretched out and stern. A place like Belsavis will do that to any commanding officer, he's pretty sure about that.

He knows, because she's confessed it under her breath in a cantina by the spaceport, that she thinks they're losing track of the ideas, the ideals. Aric suspects General Garza did that many years ago but he can't fault her for it, not since the Treaty of Coruscant and especially not now with war breaking out around them all over again. That's not to say he'd make the same choices and right now he definitely doesn't envy the captain for the ones she has to make.

The _captain_. He actually manages to call her Boldry in his head now, even _Erviel_ at times which seems more appropriate for a woman he’s having some kind of relationship with but it's started to blur, the structure around her. Hard as steel some days when things go their way and they both get cocky and bold and he more or less convinces himself that they’ll get away with anything if they just sort this war out. Which they will. Other days the foundation shake and shiver and he forces himself to think about her the way he thinks about Forex or Dorne, weighing their importance. Those days ends with a raw frustration in his chest.  
  
She's far too unmatched and he knows it. Has always known it. She'll outweigh anyone and she _shouldn't_. 

"Prison break," she mutters now.

"Yeah." Aric nods, trying to catch her gaze but she's still pacing, staring at something on her holopad. "Dorne should be cleared in a couple of days, by the way. Got her last checkup tomorrow."

Boldry finally stops moving and there's a shade of relief passing over her face. "Yes. Good."

"Hey," he tries, lowering his voice a bit. "Sit down."

"I need caffeine."

"No, sir." The rank wobbles around between them even now, but he shakes his head, pushes it away. " _Erviel_. Sit down. Listen. Only thing you need is a bit of shut-eye before we set out again."

For a second or two she seems to consider arguing with him but then her shoulders sink down and there’s a deep, ragged exhale as she nods.

“Alright.”

Damn it if he can't force other people to live by standards he's never managed for himself, he thinks, watching her finally come to a halt and slump down in a chair by his bed. They probably shouldn't be in here like this, he thinks, too.  But he can't find it in himself to be worried, not in the way he would have worried a few years ago, before Ord Mantell and this strange human commander with fire in her eyes. He's seen so many exceptions now, knows life isn’t as cut and dried as the regs.

And this is different. Different from what exactly, he doesn’t know, only that it is. Or that is _has_ to be.

 

* * *

 

 

The air on the Thunderclap feels brittle, unbreathable. That sensation is so strong that she almost instinctively checks her gear but they're safely tucked away on her ship and the report burns the skin on her hands, burns with Jaxo's final words.  
  
_It can't end like this. It can't-_

Like a holovid set to loop everything keeps happening in her head, over and over and _three hundred against one isn't a choice_ . She had leaned into Jorgan’s resolve back there on the ship; when Jaxo protested - begged, she had _begged_ \- Erviel felt her XO’s presence in her own decision, felt his comradeship and support like a sharp contrast to the fate she had to leave Jaxo to. He had been right, of course. Undeniably, unquestionably right. That doesn’t stop her hands from shaking.

There’s nothing to do but to move on, one of her instructors used to preach, a sort of dedicated madness to him. Move on and trust that the end at least compensates for the means.

Jorgan stands beside her now, again. A few feet from her bed where she’s slumped, watching her in silence for a while before he speaks.  
  
“It wasn’t a choice,” she says, turning her gaze back to the holopad in her hand. “But if it had been you-”  
  
“ _Erviel_.”  
  
“I’m just saying.”  
  
“I’d never let you.” A pause, then he continues, softly: “And I know you wouldn’t, either.”  
  
She wants to protest, wants to pick a fight with him to occupy her mind, wants to rage against a choice she’s already made and would make again, over and over and over. But there’s no fire left for it, not right now.   
  
She just shakes her head.

“What can I do?” His voice is soft against the casual brutalities that still thicken the air.

“Nothing.” She looks at him, almost wondering why he doesn’t walk away. “Just… stay.”

He nods, moves closer. Behind him the door is shut and the little noises of the ship bleed into a unified rhythm, carrying them all forward.

 

\---

 

A couple of weeks later she receives a message from Jaxo’s friend Keran Vondi; attached to it are a few pieces of nice gear. Jaxo's stuff. She didn't have any family, the message states. Erviel hadn't known; they never discussed that sort of things.

Quietly and unceremoniously she puts the gifts in her weapons locker for later, thinking _I'll tear General Rakton apart for you, slaughter him like an animal_ although she – and Jaxo – knows full well that she'll likely bring him to the Republic alive, follow proper procedure.

“We are now approaching Voss and requesting permission to land,” the holocom by her bed announces and Erviel sits up straight, presses her palms to the sheets for support before she rises to her feet.

Nothing to do but to move on.

 


	16. Flavors (various)

_(These are basically smutty drabbles. I'm not sorry.)_  

 

_soap_

  
The sharp unnatural scent of her skin that one time when he's ordered an R &R for the crew and the ship's just left Belsavis. She stands in his cabin then and Aric wonders if the unusual tightness in his body is caused by nerves or just anticipation. Wonders, until her arms come around his shoulders and render everything else blurry, like unimportant side-notes somewhere in the outskirts of a report.

He wants to take his time – or at least that's how he’s thought about it, the way his mind arranged it – in case this is it, this is all they're given. Besides, that's what the last human woman he was with seemed to want, to _need_ , in order to adjust to the differences between them. But Captain Erviel Boldry is nothing if not driven and fearless and moments later she's wrestled them both out of their clothes and wrapped one hand around his cock and it's impossible to argue with that kind of decision.

She tastes of soap and saltwater and, later, her mouth tastes of _him_ when they're catching their breaths, her body still heavy on top of his, his claws still rough against the soft curve of her waist.

 

* * *

 

 _grass_  


“We'll need ground rules,” she manages while his hands skirt up along her legs to cup her ass, pulling her towards him, dragging her down to sit in his lap which she's entirely too heavy for but neither of them care.

“Yeah,” he agrees, mouth trailing kisses over her neck and shoulders, coming to rest in the sweaty softness of her chest. Belsavis is _killing_ her and he's not helping, not when he finds them these secluded areas out of sight and they arrange their comlinks to that everyone can reach them if something happens _but only mission critical, Jonkin_.

They need much more than that, of course. Different rotations, different ships, different chains of commands and the truth of it chafes inside her, twists at the back of her mind. Once, she would have cared enough to end this, or at least postpone it. _Find a nice civvy to marry,_ Jaxo echoes in her memory,  her voice bouncing off the city lights outside the fifth cantina for the evening. _Keep him far away from the trenches. That's what I'll do when I get bored._

These days, though, she's selfish as the galaxy falls apart at the seams. Big picture, she tells herself. It won't change fuck-all in the big picture what the two of them do in their spare time.

Then she thinks of the Gauntlet and the sight of Dorne and she wonders what she would have done if it had been him and _no, it wasn’t, just shut up_ ; she bites down hard on his shoulder, harder still as she finds herself on the ground with him inside her. Soft wet jungle around them as they both come, sharp and quick.

 

* * *

 

_salt_

  
The captain's cabin is dark except for the dim lights above the bed, casting strange shadows as Erviel bolts upright, eyes wide and her mouth slightly open as if she’s about to say something.  
  
“I'm here,” Aric says instead. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
She blinks a few times before nodding towards the empty space beside her in bed. “You too.”  
  
He hesitates; the reason he’s in here to begin with is because Dorne had suggested it after the A-77 run. They both know their CO wouldn’t let anyone coddle her but after witnessing a friend’s demise and taking a few pretty serious injuries on the way out of that trap, Aric figures being coddled is the least of her concerns.  
  
When he joins her she’s warm and solid in his arms, her forehead resting against his; neither of them speak. He’s got half a mind to say something as her hand grabs hold of his and moves it between her legs, has a protest ready at the back of his tongue before he realizes this is not about him at all.  
  
She’s silent when she rocks against his palm, silent when he feels her tighten and relent: just as he’s about to drift off and let sleep take him, he can scent hot, salt grief on her face. Wordlessly he pulls her closer, _closer_.

   
  


* * *

  


_fabric_

  
Mouths full of the familiar taste of underarmor - never naked, weapons always within reach, no holopads turned off and a few other rules her brain keeps erasing - as they fuck each other in a camp on Voss. Such a mystical place it almost feels vulgar to shove him up against a crate here, Erviel thinks, spreading her legs to take him inside her. _Vulgar_ and he's trying not to make a sound even if she can practically see the blood rush through him with every thrust. He growls something into her shoulder, she rocks hard against him, her fingers leaving bruises on his hips; she moves even faster, trying to wash away all remains of this planet, every memory of death and madness and everything that chills her to the bone despite the heat.

There’s blood on the armor afterwards and she pretends it’s from fighting.

 

* * *

 

  
  
_dirt  
_  
  
“I haven’t showered in forever,” she protests weakly. “Probably still have some ancient beast smeared under my armor.”  
  
“Don't care.” He's already on his knees in front of her, one hand on her thigh, the other on her knee, making room for himself between her legs. Voss has done a number on his head, he's eager to force it all out of his system.   
  
“Didn't think so,” she mutters through gritted teeth, every ounce of that mind-blowing swagger dripping like filth from her words.  
  
When he closes his mouth over her cunt she digs her heels so hard into his back that it nearly kicks the breath out of him for a moment. Seems she does that in every way imaginable these days, with no effort. Not that he ever thought it was going to be a temporary thing with this woman, not that he ever wanted that. Still, their battlefield flirting and growing friendship hadn't prepared him for this, for how completely she'd enter his life and leave marks all over it, a whole web of imprints that he can't shake off.   
  
_Stars, I love her_ , he thinks as she comes undone, hands raking, scraping along the back of his head. And before he has time to be scared about that new insight, Erviel's hands have moved rapidly from his neck and shoulders down to his crotch, her face cracked open by a wide, wicked grin.  
  
“Your turn, Jorgan.”


	17. Hour (Coruscant)

 

There’s a restaurant on top of one of the tallest towers around Senate Plaza; everyone’s heard of it.  
  
“We deserve at least one excellent meal after this run,” Erviel declares when they wrap things up on Voss. She’s visibly frustrated and Aric assumes it’s the diplomacy bit that’s done her patience in because she hates feeling inferior. And who doesn't? Training gives you a lot of skills but not all that many edges outside of battlefields and war rooms, they've all felt the same at some point in their military career. Voss has been somewhat of a hot mess and they've all been out of their depths – they all are as the Empire's war begins. He stifles a frustrated sigh. The Republic could never afford that treaty in the first place and now it's back to the trenches; he feels a hot flush of anger at the very thought. “One excellent meal at Coruscant's finest.”  
  
“That sounds about right, sir.” Dorne nods for emphasis.  
  
“I assume the Republic’s paying.” Vik rubs his neck and as usual Aric tries not to think about how badly he’d like to punch the man.  
  
The commander shrugs. “Depends on your manners, Vik.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a restaurant on top of one of the tallest towers around Senate Plaza; everyone’s heard of it.  
  
They won’t have the opportunity to visit it this time they’re on Coruscant either and she hadn't really counted on it – she barely counts on _sleep_ these days – but the irritation still lingers. It's pretty much the sum of her desires whenever she's ship-bound for a longer duration:  
  
“One day we'll eat there,” Jorgan – _Aric_ , it's almost always Aric now and there are some fears attached to that fact but not enough to stop – says when they're walking down the fancy streets leading them back to the spaceport. It's a warm day, one with air so soft and mild it feels like an invitation to sit down, lean back and bask.  
  
“I hope you’re right.”  
  
“Usually am, sir.” He gives her a wry smile, reminding he that they really need to work out some arrangement for themselves once this run is over, stick to at least some of the regs and undo a bit of the damage.  
  
It’s impossible to think of it that way, though. Damage. They’ve spent enough stolen moments together now for her to have a vast arsenal of memories and fragments of them together, not as soldiers but as _people_ ; there’s an unbroken chain of images connected to him in her mind and she can’t find anything that comes even close to damage in there. She’s had her share of fun but ultimately unfulfilling encounters, left them without ever looking back and this, she knows every time she throws him a sideway glance or catches his gaze, is not one of those.

As they stop by the vendors on the lower level to refill some of the more rare or exclusive supplies Dorne doesn’t always manage through the official channels, Erviel is struck by a sudden desire to stall departure just a little while.  
  
“We’ll rendezvous back at the Thunderclap in an hour”, she tells Yuun who’s lingering among the tech vendors. “No delays,” she adds when she spots Vik there, too.  
  
They’re still on duty, still carrying Havoc symbols on their clothes and in their postures but even special ops officers have breaks, especially here on Coruscant. And so much they could discuss, so many things she could comment on here and now, with her XO all to herself.    
  
Instead, she grabs some ration bars from a food merchant and two mugs of coffee from another and nods towards a fairly secluded corner outside the sparsely populated cantina. It’s not a rush hour, that’s for certain. All the better for them.  
  
“It might not be the restaurant of your dreams but hang on,” she says and shows him her loot. “One meal coming up. That bench over there?”  
  
Aric looks amused. “Romantic spot.”  
  
“Do you mind?” She raises an eyebrow. “They can kill my time off all they want but I’ll enjoy a meal with my man no matter what.”  
  
“My man?” He lowers his voice in a manner that almost makes her gasp for air. “I like it.”  
  
If they had been back on the ship and out of sight she would have kissed him, if they had been somewhere private enough they would have done much more interesting things; if they hadn’t been the people they are, trapped somewhere in between a cold war and a battlefield they would have had every opportunity in the galaxy.  
  
Here, being themselves, they have an hour.  
  
The better part of it they spend going over recent events and new orders, always one eye on the holopad. The coffee burns away some of her tiredness, the sweetness of the coconut-flavour ration bar does its job as well and it’s a _good_ thing, a welcome relief washing over her.    
  
“We’ll figure it out,” Aric says, as usual uncannily in tune with her train of thought.  
  
They probably won’t - her inner pessimist is strong these days, growing in time with the reports about Imperial warfare - but she chooses to believe it right now, here where the air is still fresh and the people are happy. Sometimes that’s all you have.  
  
“Yeah,” she says, leaning back to enjoy the last shivering minutes of their very own peace.


	18. Dusk (Hoth)

  
The anger burns him warm on Hoth this time around. Burns him careless, burns him _dry_ and makes him lean against a block of ice, drawing sharp breaths. 

“I was awaiting transfer when you two geniuses showed up.” The contempt curves around each word, every syllable. Aric hides his fists behind his back and bites down, hard, on a retort.   
  
It’s not that he doesn’t get why Zane is being an ass - Havoc has effectively ruined an intelligence op, wasted enormous amounts of careful staging and planning - because that sort of behaviour is pretty much standard in SIS even on a good day. It’s not that he can’t recognise a mistake of his own.   
  
But it’s just too damn _much_ .   
  
At least he’s been clever enough to bring Boldy. Level-headed, perfectly detached Boldry who scrutinizes Zane without all of the fury, all of the disappointment and frustration that seems to mess Aric’s head up when it comes to this mission. 

“If you had kept us in the loop, we could have coordinated this better,” she says dryly.   
  
Zane scoffs. “And what- _hoped_ you wouldn’t say anything?”   
  
Aric shakes his head.   
  
The Deadeyes had been family. No less than that. _Family_ and the fate of them now twists itself inside his veins like a poison because you owe it to your family to protect them, to defend them. Time may have passed but they’re still there with him. Brevin, full of holonet gossip about the brass, generously spilled whenever they had a moment to spare for it. Gotta know who you work for, sir. Janx from Dantooine; deadliest aim on this side of the galaxy and the foulest mouth he’d ever come across. She used to take night shifts with him, talk him through doubts and speculations. Trace who kept a whole library of knowledge on rifles in his head and Koplin, their battlefield mentor with a good sense of morals and a willingness to share it with the rest of them, if needed.   
  
The Deadeyes had been family and they tell him, on this frozen scrapyard of a planet, that they’re dead. Dead for _nothing;_ dead for a useless operation lead by arrogant scum who had betrayed his own soldiers; dead waiting for a rescue that never came; dead, dead, dead. Ord Mantell flashes through his head when he raises his gun and points it at Zane. Somewhere behind the ice he thinks for a fraction of a second that he can hear Tavus.   
  
_I want you dead on the ground_ he thinks and there’s a thread of fear in his own thought, a quiet little whisper. There are lines that he’s crossing, he’s well aware of that and even so, in those shivering moments with his hands cradling the gun the only thing that’s holding him back, the one detail that’s forcing him to step down, is Boldry by his side.   
  
“This isn’t the way,” she says and Aric exhales, falls into the chain of command with a relief that could make him cry if he was the kind of person who did.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
He still looks tense when she finds him on the ship later that night.   
  
Nobody else would notice, most likely, because it’s the sort of tension he’s hidden well under his usual composure and covered up with daily duties and a slow, steady tapping on his holopad. The very model of a Republic soldier, piling up the trauma and anger inside.   
  
“You doing alright?” She steps into his cabin but only slightly, offering him a way out of the conversation if he wants it. If the roles had been reversed she’s not sure she’d want to talk it through with him, not sure she wouldn’t prefer drowning it all in hard liquor and a bad night’s sleep. She, too, has always been an excellent officer.   
  
But Aric looks up, nods, and something flickers in the corners of his mouth.   
  
“I wanted to apologise,” he says. “And to thank you.”   
  
Erviel takes it as a sign that she’s welcome; the door closes with a soft thud behind her. He watches her. And it’s strange to think that around them the galaxy shatters with war and destruction yet they’re here, warm and safe and the only thing she can think about right now is the way his arms feels when they’re framing her in bed, the way his mouth taste when he has explored her body, that look in his eyes when she mutters incoherently into the warm fur on his shoulder.   
  
“I didn’t do anything.”   
  
“Yeah, you did. Stopped me from making the worst mistake of my life.”   
  
And threatened to personally kill a senior agent if he ever mentions it to anyone, she thinks, but doesn’t say. _Pride and joy of the Republic army, right there_ but it’s a long time since she cared about those things _._ In a different life, one before the civil war on Ord Mantell, perhaps.   
  
In this life, she closes the distance between Aric’s body and her own and tilts her head back as he leans in to kiss her.   
  
It’s not a gentle kiss; they’re not in a gentle mood. They’re at _war_ , preparing their minds and bodies for the battlefields of Corellia and Erviel can taste the fear of defeat on her own tongue as it traces the line of Aric’s lips, can taste the ghost of victory along his throat as he pushes her up against the wall and she hooks one leg around his waist. The ship’s not private enough for it, not with the whole squad on board, with them all in transit, just waiting for orders.   
  
“Don’t care,” she hisses when he points it out in a brief moment of clarity, halfway inside her already and it almost _hurts_ for both of them, almost verges on the wrong side of pleasure but he is solid muscle beneath her fingertips and she is strong as ever as he buries his face between her breasts.   
  
It spins, all of it, spins with the stars and planets on the other side of the ship’s walls. Spins with all the soldiers and officers out there, dying and falling and it’s the loss of him she can’t stand, she knows it when he comes, when his body shakes with a held-back scream and she clings to him like it would save them both.   
  
It _spins_.   
  
“I love you,” she confesses to the hollow of his throat.   
  
_I love you_ and suddenly everything stops.     
  
  



	19. Blazing spear (Corellia)

  
  
  
Corellia.   
  
She’s five or six, maybe seven, and her mother walks several steps ahead of them in the Axial Park, keeping up an endless private lecture about the local starship construction facilities. Smells, sounds, textures - to her mother it’s as thrilling as any adventure, probably even _more_. An excursion to the Museum of Starships is likely her dream of the perfect, happiest day imaginable, Ervil reckons. Being a pilot, her mum is always thinking about ships, the shape of them almost visible in her eyes whenever they visit family on this planet.   
  
“Sometimes I think she married me for the starship construction facilities,” he whispers; his breath is warm and sweet against Erviel’s cheek when he leans down. “That, or the whiskey.”   
  
They walk at their own pace, holding hands and sharing quick sideways smiles. The familiarity of him beats in her; he’s already on his way somewhere else but here and now her fingers are entwined with his.     
  
“I’m going to live here when I grow up,” Erviel states, proud to have roots somewhere among the stars.   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Corellia.

Her father is dead, though the notion is still so raw that she can forget it, occasionally slip into an alternate reality where he pops up and disappears again in holocalls from whatever remote ship he’d be stationed on. _Guess what I just read, Ervie!_ The wound hasn't closed properly so the imagination roams endlessly free even as she sits here on a Corellian beach and stares at her hands.

Her grandmother says she has her father's hands. Square and sturdy, _dependable_.

Beside her is half a ryshcate that she hasn't been able to finish. The sweetness of it dries her throat, makes her feel parched. _We share this ryshcate in the same way we share our celebration of life_ and her father is _dead_ .   
  
It just seems wrong.   
  
Everything’s wrong with this place.

  
  
***  
  
  
  
_Corellia_.  
  
They’re firebombing the residential districts, attacking civs on public transports. Garza’s tone is crisp as ever, falls sharp and clear as she gives stat reports.   
  
“It’s your call, Major. But if we allow ourselves to be distracted by every small-scale raid, we’ll never reach Rakton.”  
  
Erviel looks at the burning debris around them and clenches her jaw. It’s a Core World. It’s right there in the heart of the Republic, a beating bloody heart full of resources and people and _hope_. They can’t lose Corellia; they can’t afford to defend it properly. It shouldn’t be up to Havoc squad to seal the fate of the people trapped in the crossfire but somehow it is.   
  
Sacrifice them for a by-the-book special ops deploying surprise tactics or charging into the battle, hoping to beat the Imps and not waste too many civs.   
  
She exhales, deep and slow.   
  
“If I can help these people, I have to try.”   
  
Beside her, Aric shoots her a quick glance.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Aric’s hand on her shoulder, just for a second in a secluded spot in one of the safehouses; both of them still looking around to see if anyone notices. This is war and you quickly become a liability.   
  
“Listen up,” he says and Erviel is torn between rolling her eyes and grinning despite it all because he’s continuously bad at something as basic as talking as a civilian and it _is_ both endearing and annoying. A little  more of the latter, if she’s being honest and today seems a good day for honesty.   
  
“Permission to speak freely,” she retorts in her own professional voice. It brings a hasty smile to his face.   
  
_Don’t die, Jorgan. I’ll kill you if you die on me._ _  
_  
“Look, sir. _Erviel_. I just wanted to-”  
  
“We don’t have to do this now.” Her _I love you_ hangs heavy in the air but she’s suddenly relieved she said it as the prospect of forever missing out on the opportunity feels far worse. All things considered. “Let’s just focus on the mission at hand.”  
  
He looks at her for a while, his expression unreadable but calm, as though he’s made his mind up about something.   
  
“Later then,” he says and it sounds like a _promise_.   
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
  
  
Later, when _the last civilized man_ has bent his knee before her at the Bastion, surrounded by smoke and steel and blood and she’s abandoned her instincts in favor of solid training and _reason_.   
  
So tempting to put her blaster to his temple, let it caress his skull for a moment, enough for that taste of metal to spread in his mouth; so impossibly enticing to let him bleed out right here on this dirty floor, for Jaxo and for Corellia and for the countless of others he’s left dead behind. To take a step closer, then another, breaching the distance between them in every sense of the word.   
  
Erviel doesn’t.   
  
“General Rakton,” her soldier-brain states, mechanic and dependable like a droid. “Consider yourself a prisoner of the Galactic Republic.”  
  
  
  
\--  
  
  
  
_Later_ , when most injuries are tended to by an almost-trembling Dorne - _we did it, sir, well done, we actually took him down!_ \- and their bodies are stuffed with potato sticks and smoked nerf and ale, just the right amount of ale for them to be warm and all but _careless_ in the wreckage of recent battles.   
  
Nothing can kill us right now, Erviel decides as they walk to the hotel that’s serving as a temporary headquarter. _Right now, in this instant, we are immortal_. Bright lights and tall shadows; the city is trapped in that moment between night and dawn, a sort of purple sky looking down on them.    
  
Aric stands mere inches away as she fidgets with the door to her room. He’s been quiet after battle but he usually is. Takes his time to process and analyze though it’s a different silence now, a more nervous kind of atmosphere.    
  
“I, uh, wasn’t sure when would be a good time to bring this up.” His gaze is fixed, his face stern. Erviel waits. “Figure now is as good as any.”  
  
Corellia has prepared her for anything but not _that_ , she thinks when he’s tangling and untangling the proposal that feels overwhelming in the midst of all this war but somehow still fits. It's something she's never imagined for herself but she had never imagined navigating through a civil war and end up leader of a special ops team either, let alone lead said team through a war against the Empire.    
  
A _proposal_.   
  
Her hands across his back in bed, his forehead resting warm and damp against her shoulder as the effects of tonight’s celebration slowly leave their systems. Erviel stretches out beside him, running her fingertips over his fur.   
  
“So, you _were_ asking me to be your life-mate before, right?”   
  
Hot flushes of breath on her skin, a little groan too, if she's not mistaken. “I had this whole thing planned out,” he mutters.  
  
Erviel grins. She feels, in fact, like she’s made entirely out of grins at present. Grins and a slight hangover that creeps into the edges of her consciousness, stabbing at her skull whenever she moves. Best not to, then. That definitely sounds like a reasonable future to her.   
  
“Not my fault that you get all flustered, Jorgan.”  
  
He huffs; her skin is marked with goosebumps where his mouth is. “It’s entirely your fault. But yeah -  life-mate, wife, however you want to put it, the position’s yours… if you want it.”  
  
She pulls back a little in his embrace, just enough to be able to look into his eyes when she tells him that yes, she does want to marry him.   
  
“Good answer,” he says and pins her, once more, to the messy hotel bed on a planet where she can sense her roots again, like gentle whispers through the galaxy.   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this concludes the main game story for these two but Erviel and Aric will be back, for sure! I'm so glad people have been reading and commenting and following this fic so I'd like to say a big THANK YOU to each and every one of you. You're awesome.


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